


Free-Falling

by HyperLittleNori (Shiguresan)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, D/s themes, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Fixing Problems with Sex, Gay Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Please Don't Judge Me This Was A Requested/Gift Fic lol, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sex as Aftercare, Slash, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 03:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13696311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiguresan/pseuds/HyperLittleNori
Summary: Crowley takes his pleasure from Castiel’s body in exchange for helping him to save Dean from Lucifer. Some dirty porn without much plot that includes a scene of dubious consent between Castiel and Crowley and some rough but loving sex from Castiel and Dean. Written as a thank you gift for a very good friend.





	Free-Falling

**Author's Note:**

> So one of my best friends of many years helped me through a tough spot – a lot. I asked how I could even begin to repay her; of course she requested Supernatural smut with these pairings and certain elements ;) It doesn’t even begin to make up for all she’s done for me but it made her infinitely happy so I hope you all enjoy it half as much!
> 
> This story is pretty much ‘Porn Without Plot’. It has no set timeline, just somewhere after Lucifer has left Castiel’s body, leaving Castiel’s powers a bit nonexistent and doesn’t necessarily comply with anything that follows. It was a gift written on request all for the smut.
> 
> Willow this one is for you sweetheart – mwah!

**Free-Falling**

 

 

Crowley didn’t recognise the room he’d been summoned to. He kept his back turned to the one who’d called, breathing in the smell of sweat, leather and citrus scented cleaning solution. He glanced around casually at the deserted club, the bar and dance floor spotless and vacant. Making his way to the bar, he snatched up a clean glass and poured himself a drink. The fragrance of the amber liquid within was intoxicating, he gave a sigh and took it in one swig.

 

 “Interesting meeting place,” Crowley murmured, his voice light and unconcerned. “I hope it’s conducive to whatever business you’ve got…” His voice died as he turned on the bar stool to see the person who’d called him here.

 

 “Well, look at you, pretty boy,” Crowley said derisively, “you’re all grown up now big brother’s moved out.” He looked around at the seedy bar with the big doors at the back, the ones that lead into a place that smelled gloriously of last night’s sweat and sex. Crowley gave a devilish smirk. “First thing you do flying solo is come and get yourself laid, eh? Not surprised. It’d be the first thing I did.” He poured himself another whisky and drank.

 

 Castiel gave the man his usual intense stare and strode forward, slamming his palm down flat on the bar and leaning in. “I don’t have time for games.”

 

 Crowley chuckled, “Well then you came to the wrong king, princess.” He set his glass down and slid it to the side, watching with mild surprise as Castiel caught it mid-slide without ever looking away from him.

 

 “So then, tell me, who was she?” Crowley gestured to the back room that stood vacant now. “Did you fancy tying up a sweet little school girl? Beating a stripper black and blue? I wouldn’t have expected this to be your scene; you always seemed a little too righteous for rough sex in a BDSM bar.” When Castiel didn’t respond Crowley turned fully to face him on the stool. “You always were the dullest boy from heaven. Come on then, tell me why you called me here so I can say no and leave.”

 

 Castiel stared at him, eyes dark in the dim, ungenerous light of the club and then he sat back slowly onto the stool beside Crowley. “Lucifer has Dean,” he said, simple, rough and uncompromising of his mask of intense indifference.

 

 Crowley’s lips widened with a foreboding Cheshire Cat smile, all white teeth and dark bristles and a glint in his eyes that made Castiel freeze, waver just for a moment. He had been prepared when he came here to do whatever it took but the sight of that dangerous smile reminded him just who he was dealing with here.

 

 “Is that right?” Crowley asked, with the air of someone asking if he was sure it was going to rain. “Well those Winchester boys always do know how to get themselves into all sorts of trouble. That’s the trouble with motherless children, you know, _daddy_ never knows how to keep them in line. Not the way mama does.” He carefully extracted his glass from Castiel’s hand and refilled it, before offering it to him. “But then, you know all about daddy issues, don’t you?”

 

 Castiel gripped the glass, slamming it down hard on the bar so the whisky sloshed out over the surface. “No games,” he said sharply. “You are the only one who can help me.”

 

 “I’ve heard that one before,” Crowley said dismissively, sweeping his thumb through the puddle of alcohol and licking it thoughtfully. “Must be true.”

 

 “So name your price,” Castiel said. “Now.”

 

 “Oooh, we are feisty now we’ve got our balls back, aren’t we?” Crowley mused, sweeping his thumb through the spilled whisky again and sucking the fluid thoughtfully from his own skin as he held those eyes. “I’ve sworn off oaths revolving around the Winchesters,” he said. “I don’t _need_ anything that’s worth getting involved in their mess.”

 

 Castiel set his jaw. “You don’t need anything,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “So what do you want?”

 

 There was that dark smile again. “Well, you’ve brought me here, Cassie,” he taunted, gesturing around them before sweeping his thumb into the alcohol again. This time, the fingers that accompanied it slid up to cup Castiel’s jaw, the thumb brushing the fluid across lips that parted in surprise, then clenched shut in defiance. He kept his thumb there, pressing gently. “You tell me what I want,” Crowley finished, challenged.

 

 

 Castiel’s breath held in his chest, as still as the rest of him. Yes, he’d known before he’d come what the King of Hell was likely to want. There were enough who’d done deals of this sort with this creature to fill this bar if necessary. Besides, Crowley had seen Lucifer enjoy himself here with some poor scraps of humanity, torturing pleasure and pain alike from unknowing patrons of this place using _his_ body. It seemed morbidly fitting. Just. That he should suffer as those men and women had under his fingers, whether he’d been in control of them or not.

 

 His hesitation, perhaps the self-flagellation or even the stubborn set of his jaw was all the answer Crowley needed. The man’s fingers slipped back enough that he could grasp his jaw more firmly, his thumb sliding against his mouth, smearing the whisky and tugging down so that when their lips met, Castiel’s were pried open for the assault. He slammed his eyes shut, forcing his body to take the brunt of the pressure, forcing himself not to be moved from the stool.

 

 Crowley’s bristly stubble scraped at his skin as those lips melded against his, tongue swiping greedily at the splash of whisky there before diving in, forcing Castiel to share it. The wretchedly warm burn of whisky, Crowley and wet pleasure swept across his own tongue, flicked at the tip, lips massaging his own. On the bar, his fingers curled in defiance.

 

 Crowley’s blunt nails scraped at his jaw, pushing to tilt his head into position to accept his mouth. Any pretence of indifference died with a sharp grunt, however as Crowley seized the loose end of his belt and tugged hard, tugged him forward so that Castiel came clean off his stool and came to stand between the man’s parted legs.

 

 Wrenching his mouth away, Castiel winced at the revolting feel of hard heat against his stomach, which was in perfect parallel to Crowley’s groin with him still on the bar stool. The fingers curled around his nape, holding his neck firmly, gripping the short hair enough to force his head back. Bristled lips grazed his jaw, his throat and whisky-scented lips sucked at his adam’s apple as he swallowed. All the while the hand at his waist worked his belt and trousers open with rough jerks, pushing them to his knees.

 

 Calloused fingers that were too warm, too big, too gentle and teasing as they smoothed over an exposed hip bone and down his thigh, up again to cup him, massage his unresponsive flesh. They made him grit his teeth. He hated that his hands were free, that he could push this man off if he wanted but they just hung there limp and useless and… _accepting._ Accepting the soft grip that caressed him until little bursts of heat punctured him everywhere, until his cock hardened, that thumb sliding up the underside and grazing over and over a the little line of flesh beneath the head. He gasped.

 

 “Thinking of Miss Winchester?” Crowley growled huskily and Castiel flinched. He shoved at Crowley’s shoulders, staggering back into the bar. Anything he was about to say or do was cut off as he was thrown across the bar, face and chest plastered into the cold wood by a hand at his neck. The other roughly jerked his clothes completely away from his lower half, shoving angrily and punishingly at his coat and shirt until he was bent over the bar, bare from head to toe. He jerked and then grunted as his arm was twisted back behind his spine, helping to pinion him to place, hip bones bruised by the unforgiving edge of the wood.

 

 “So you do have balls after all,” Crowley breathed against the shell of his ear, hot and rough, the weight of his body curving over him, knuckles brushing coaxingly against Castiel’s balls, teasing soft strokes that made his cock harden further where it hung against the wood. Castiel clenched his eyes shut again, fingers tensing behind his back where they were held.

 

 “Don’t close your eyes,” Crowley barked, tugging his head to the side so his cheek rested against the wood, so that when Castiel opened his eyes he could see them reflected in the glass behind the bar.

 

No.

 

 A lascivious smile crept across those lips that had been assaulting him moments before, eyes flashing darkly as they held his in the glass. “That’s it,” the man above him murmured, “keep watching. Do you want my help or not?”

 

 Castiel saw the set of his own jaw, watched himself and the way his eyes dilated when Crowley nosed almost _lovingly_ into the back of his neck, free hand sliding down to stroke the tense muscles of his back, hovering at his hip and dipping his fingers in the line of taut muscle that followed his hipbones inwards. His treacherous prick jerked against the wood. He ground his teeth together. Crowley was smelling him.

 

 “I’m going to let go of your arm,” Crowley promised gently, “And when I do, you’re going to reach back and hold yourself open for me.”

 

 Castiel tensed. Crowley chuckled again, the dark laughter raising goosebumps along Castiel’s flesh as the man’s body heat retreated a little. He watched Crowley stand back from him in the mirror, just enough to survey him fully. When Castiel didn’t move to comply immediately, he met his eyes in the glass, dark with impatience.

 

 “You think what I’m about to do to you is scary? Imagine what the Devil is doing to your favourite Winchester right now.” The fingers that had been teasing his hip slid down to grasp his prick, stroking with punishing, perfect pleasure. Castiel groaned in spite of himself, wincing in lieu of slamming his eyes shut as he reached back and spread himself, fingers digging white-knuckled into his cheeks as he determinedly kept them from shaking with anger. He would give this man his body but not a shred of emotion if he could help it.

 

 “Wider, Wings, I couldn’t floss between those pretty cheeks,” Crowley sneered derisively.

 

 Castiel dug his fingers in harder, body tilting hard onto the bar so he could hold himself wider for the bastard’s perusal. He watched his own face in the mirror, determinedly ignoring Crowley, not sure which sight was worse, Crowley’s crowing pleasure or his own mortification colouring his face.

 

 “Mmm,” Crowley murmured in appreciation, fingers ghosting back, stroking Castiel’s in mock affection, before allowing his thumbs to caress the exposed cleft. When Castiel tensed on instinct, the guttural laugh that left Crowley’s throat was the most perverse thing he’d ever heard.

 

 “Don’t move or the deal is off,” the man warned, meeting Castiel’s gaze fleetingly before picking up the bottle of whisky. A glint of light flashing off the chrome measuring spot lodged within was the only warning he had before it was up-ended and a thin, measured stream splashed across his tailbone. The whisky was cold but it tingled as it trickled down between his cheeks, stinging his puckered entrance. He hissed, the sound morphing into a groan of warring shocked heat and revulsion as Crowley lowered his head. That tongue drank from the dip of his tailbone above his spread cheeks, before chasing the rivulets of burning fluid across his entrance.

 

 He cried out. He couldn’t help it. His body jerked and his cock drooled treacherously as that mouth shamelessly sucked the expensive beverage from his heating, twitching flesh. His clenched hole gave a spasm of need under the tongue. A chuckle brushed against his opening, hot with booze and lust. He did close his eyes then to hide the glassy arousal from his own sight, but he didn’t move, he kept himself open, even when the feel of Crowley’s stubble between his cheeks made him choke.

 

 “Such a nice smooth cunt. You’re full of surprises aren’t you, angel?” Crowley purred, punctuating his words by pressing the tip of his tongue against the tight bud, saliva slicking the taunting caress until the puckered, twitching flesh opened for him.

 

 Castiel shuddered, fingers digging in with bruising force now and his jaw ached with the need to stifle any sound that threatened. He’d felt Lucifer do unspeakable things with his body, but he’d always withdrawn from it, distanced himself from the depravity. And before that, he’d never even come close to this kind of dark, depraved heat, this all-consuming fire of hell that set him alight with need and anger.

 

 He couldn’t do this. He had to do this. When Crowley’s tongue pierced his quivering ring he did cry out, the sound guttural and anguished in spite of the pleasure than lanced him, making his insides squirm as assuredly as the tongue inside him.

 

 “Mmmm,” Crowley murmured approval again, undoubtedly noticing the way Castiel’s hips tilted the last few inches into the bar to push up, in spite of his reservations. His hole quivered, welcomed Crowley inside, slick with spit and the slight burn of remaining whisky on the lips devouring him. Hot, he was so hot, inside and out, sweat beading across his brow. That tongue was maddening, the vibrations of the bastard’s pleased humming sending little sparks of pleasure up and down his spine like a shower of acid rain. He jerked. His cock sputtered.

 

 Spit dribbled down from his hole, trickling over his perineum to coat his hanging, full bollocks and neglected cock. Crowley’s blunt nails returned, dragging against the back of his thigh as a fingertip from the other hand teased at his hole around the bastard’s tongue. Swirling and circling, pressing in alongside it just a fraction before continuing in dizzying circles. His hips jerked again and a smile was there, at the most tender opening to his body, a warning before the finger pushed in, one smooth, wet slide home. It cast a glancing blow at his prostate and his cock throbbed. Close, so close, so wretchedly close already.

 

 “ _Stop_ ,” he choked, the sound a defiant whisper. Crowley bit at the base of his tail bone, finger curling slightly, as if beckoning what left of Castiel’s resistance into surrender.

 

 “And leave you so desperate?” Crowley taunted huskily, mockingly, “That would be cruel.” He dragged his finger outward, just enough to get the perfect friction against that place inside that made Castiel see stars no matter how hard he clenched his eyes shut.

 

 “Don’t,” Castiel urged roughly.

 

 “This is was all a ruse, wasn’t it? I don’t think Dean Winchester is in danger, I think you just wanted me, didn’t you princess?” Crowley mused, spitting to lubricate the second finger he slid inside, prising his ass open as it joined the other. They were pulling apart a little inside with every outward twitch now, grazing the hot, tight place within in reward whenever he couldn’t quite stop a sound of rough, loathed pleasure from leaving him.

 

 “You came here for a fuck, didn’t you? Tell me.”

 

 Castiel’s eyes flew open and he glared at what he could see of Crowley in the mirror. “ _No_ ,” he snarled.

 

 “You’re so tense, maybe you needed a little release? A beating only a demon could give you?” Crowley said earnestly, spitting again. Three fingers prised Castiel open, the moist, dribbling ring of flesh resisting, shuddering around the relentless push-pull of them. When Castiel hissed, Crowley groaned in approval, sinking all three digits in to the knuckle, curling them against the tight heat.

 

 “Dean Winchester couldn’t scratch this itch for you, couldn’t open your holy little cunt so wide it couldn’t even close up anymore.” He spat, jerking his fingers faster, harder, calloused, wet flesh coring him open and grinding against his prostate until a steady stream of pre-emission dribbled from his cock to the floor. They milked him dry from the inside before he’d even come and then carried on until Castiel’s body was moving on its own, rushing with endorphins and unwanted release until it felt like he was falling off a precipice he hadn’t realised he was standing on.

 

 Suddenly, Crowley jerked his hand away, wiping his hand off carelessly on Castiel’s discarded shirt as he regarded his panting body. Castiel watched in the mirror as those eyes travelled his heaving form, lingering hungrily over his open, spit-slicked entrance. It twitched around nothing, waiting, wanting.

 

 “I’m going to help you save Dean Winchester,” Crowley murmured, striding across the bar to the back room, bottle of whisky in hand. He tore off the measurer and took a swig directly from the bottle. It was a test, Castiel knew and he didn’t move, didn’t allow Crowley the pleasure of correcting him, punishing him or giving him an excuse to renege on their deal.

 

 “I probably would’ve helped you even if you hadn’t bargained yourself, you know, I can be unpredictable that way – _whacky_ ,” he smirked, “I’ll help you alright, but not until I’ve thoroughly ruined you.” This demon gave a lot of talk, gave a lot of attitude and bullshit but Castiel could see his expression clearly enough, hear the sincerity of twisted yearning in his words and he knew he was telling the truth now.

 

 He was going to walk out of here forever changed.

 

 It was like that tongue had branded him deep inside, a permanent ache that would never be sated again. A warped flame awakened that he’d never be able to stomp out. He’d never be the same after this. He’d never be able to look anyone in the eye without somehow fearing they’d know what he’d become, what he’d _wanted._ To be sodomised by the king of hell because his body had been primed and now was desperate for it.

 

 “Hurry up,” Crowley said then, his words and impatient gesture to the back room cutting through Castiel’s self-deprecating thoughts. “The quicker I’m satisfied the quicker you can liberate your precious demon hunter.” With that, he strode into the back room and out of sight.

 

 Castiel hesitated, staring at himself in the glass, steeling himself, trying to regain some semblance of composure, failing as he pushed up from the bar and followed in Crowley’s wake.

 

 The back room was as expected. He’d seen Lucifer use most of this equipment on victims both unwilling and consenting – to start with anyway. He paused on the threshold, his nakedness not bothering him until Crowley’s gaze slid over him, assessing, appreciating. The bastard was sprawled on a burgundy leather chaise across the room, trousers open and shirt undone, revealing a trail of dark chest hair.

 

 Castiel turned his gaze to the vast options of sexual torture, wondering which Crowley would choose. When his eyes fell upon the cross in the furthest corner of the room, a hard lump rose in his throat.

 

 “Oh no, this isn’t a nativity, feathers. There’s no self-righteous, martyr role for you here. You don’t get to be the noble sacrifice. You’re not Dean Winchester’s holy savior here, you’re just a whore,” Crowley mused, “Come here.”

 

 Castiel hesitated, bare as the day of creation as he stood there, Crowley’s eyes roving his body, swigging the whisky, completely unperturbed by Castiel’s hesitation. Relishing it, knowing for certain that eventually he would come to him. Castiel grit his teeth again, loathing the glint of pleasure in that gaze, the knowing appreciation as he forced his feet forward. The longer he hesitated the worse it would be for Dean. Dean, who seemed so very far away from this place right now, as if he were on a complete different planet.

 

 He came to stand at the end of the leather chaise, staring hard and defiant down at Crowley who glanced up at him with a sensual smile. One leg was stretched out flat toward Castiel, the other crooked at the knee, a casual self-assured lounging position that made Castiel’s blood boil. This creature had all the power here and he knew it.

 

 “Get it over with,” Castiel demanded darkly.

 

 Crowley chuckled again. “Patience not one of your virtues?” He gestured with his chin over at the free standing mirror at the far side of the room. “Bring that and set it where you’re standing now, then get over here.” There was a low, almost purring dominance in his voice that made Castiel shudder. He stretched his shoulders in an effort to hide it as he reluctantly did as he was bid, setting the mirror down with firm distaste.

 

 He came up short as he stood at the side. There was no room to misinterpret Crowley’s order, especially when the hand not wrapped around the neck of the whisky bottle slid up the back of his thigh, caressing his flesh from just behind the knee to the curve of his buttock. There the fingers curved, grasping, tugging him forward until he was forced to swing one leg awkwardly over the Crowley’s outstretched one, kneeling over it and bracing himself on the back of the chaise, hovering over him, offering himself without words.

 

 “Mmm, you are easy on the eyes,” Crowley murmured, fingers splaying across Castiel’s chest, thumb brushing across a hardened nipple, skimming down his ribs and tight stomach. All the while he held his gaze, smirking knowingly. “The honourable ones always taste best.” He scraped his nails against Castiel’s hipbone before reaching down the side of the chaise.

 

 Castiel didn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of looking down but he did tense when he felt cold, smooth silicone against his abdomen. He could guess what it was from the weight as it was pressed into his stomach, gliding alongside his cock, a thick shaft that Crowley dragged between the valley of his cheeks suggestively. “There’s a bottle of lube on the side,” Crowley said, gesturing with his head to the sideboard just behind the chaise where a bottle sat beside a few candles. “Make it nice and wet, angel.”

 

 Trying to keep his movements disinterested and automatic, as unaffected by hatred and humiliation as possible, he stretched to reach over Crowley for the bottle, only when he did, Crowley’s drawn up knee nudged him up so he was kneeling over the bastard’s hips now. His chest hovering just above the man’s face heaved with a sharp breath and a bristly murmur ghosted over his collarbone before grazing a hardened bud. He jerked. He kept moving, even as that mouth drew hard and deep on a nipple, teeth catching it so that he almost fumbled the bottle.

 

 Determined to finish this, to not betray himself as he had back in the bar, Castiel reached down with an oil-slicked hand to hesitantly caress the silicone shaft Crowley still rocked up against his cheeks. He grasped it reluctantly, head bowed above Crowley’s as he stroked, spread the viscous fluid across the unforgiving surface.

 

 “Look at me,” that voice demanded and Castiel shifted back on his knees to meet the eyes he currently loathed more than even Lucifer himself right at that moment. They shone with derisive approval.

 

 “That’s it, squeeze it for me. Feel how thick it is. Make sure it’s wet enough.”

 

 Castiel sneered. “Stop talking,” he said, raspy, treacherously desperate.

 

 “Now, don’t be like that,” Crowley cooed in mock placation, tilting his head to consider him for a brief moment before sliding their mouths together again. The whisky was even stronger now, warm and hatefully sweet. Crowley pried his lips open with confident, greedy motions, bruised and tasted.

 

 The silicone slid free of his hand and slid wetly up his crack again, smearing some of the lubrication before sinking into him. He choked, he cried out and that mouth swallowed the sound readily as it kept moving, taking his lips more ferociously now, tongue lashing his in unwanted reward for the noises he couldn’t help but make as he was pried open. It was one long, torturously slow movement inward but then Crowley’s lube-damp fingers grasped the hair at his nape and tugged him back enough to force him to look at him again, just as his body sucked the invading shaft all the way back inside. The ultimate mortification.

 

 “You’re going to do some of the work now, handsome,” Crowley muttered, sipping from the bottle still in his other hand. “I can see you in that mirror behind you. Tilt your hips up.” Following on autopilot, Castiel obeyed, grunting at the pressure on his insides, slick and stretched to capacity.

 

 Crowley caressed his hair in a would-be soothing motion. “Now you’re going to push it out so I can see, then let your slutty little hole suck it right back in again. You’re going to fuck yourself on it without even using your hands.”

 

 There was no stopping the flush that crept across his face and throat. Castiel closed his eyes until the grip on his hair tightened again and he took one last look at Crowley before he forced himself to obey. He pushed. The thick, smooth shaft slid out a fraction, gliding against that place inside that Crowley had touched on earlier and making him tense with horrified pleasure. His moist, clenching entrance sucked it back in again. He clenched down without thinking and a low gasp escaped him.

 

 “That’s it, keep it moving for me,” Crowley urged huskily, mouth brushing Castiel’s jaw in encouragement. “Suck it back in deeper.”

 

 God help him, he obeyed. It was like he was born to take orders – he supposed he was. His legs tensed as he repeated it over and over. Pushing out, feeling the sinful wet drag out of his channel, then the returning glorious nearly-there pressure on his prostate. In. Out. The sinking back in, the frantic clench of his muscles to not let it escape too far was both the best and the worst. Heat coiled low in his belly with each glancing pass to _that_ place. His ass was making despicable wet noises. His fingers curled on the back of the chaise as he struggled to hold onto some part of himself, to take it without surrendering.

 

 “It’s like watching a greedy little mouth back there, guzzling up cock like it was made for it,” Crowley growled.

 

 Castiel groaned, grateful when the pressure on the back of his head pushed it hard into Crowley’s chest, nosed pressed into the hair there as he felt his body’s betrayal. His legs shuddered, his hole quivered, exhausted muscles struggling to keep going. Not just to obey Crowley, not even to save Dean anymore but because it felt so fucking good. He hated it. He hated Crowley and he hated himself but it felt _good_.

 

 The sounds he made were smothered against Crowley’s flesh. He could hear the increased heart-rate and breathing and knew it was because of his little wanton display. In. Out. In. Out. _In_. It sank in deep then and his tired muscles held it, needing more even as he sank into despair.

_Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…_

 

 Crowley pushed at his head then, urging him down and he followed because he could do nothing else, submerged so far into something dark and alluring and powerful. He had seen hell and he had seen heaven and neither had a candle to the power of this flame. Crowley’s cock jutted up from his open trousers, pressing into his cheek and he didn’t care. Out. In. Out. In.

 

 Crowley was still watching him, he knew it. The hand on his hair was caressing now, still holding but urgently stroking too, directing him so that he was rubbing his cheek against Crowley’s cock. He was being used to rut against. When the fingers gripped his hair again, holding him in place Crowley let out a grunt of pleasure and started to grind his hips up, fucking his cock along the line of his cheek, his lips, his jaw, smearing pre-come there.

 

 Castiel closed his eyes and panted in spite of himself. The fire in his stomach an unstoppable inferno now, his ass sucking insatiably on the man-made shaft and urging it to fuck him faster, harder, but unable to make it do so.

 

 “Is your sloppy cunt flirting with me, wings?”

 

 Those words made something snap in him. He tried to jerk his head up but Crowley held him in place, fucking his face more violently, the whisky bottle crashing to the floor as the man’s free hand scraped at his shoulders, his back. “By the time I’m through with you, you’ll never be able to look Dean Winchester in the eye again,” Crowley promised, before shoving him roughly aside. He seized hold of his legs, flipping him over onto his back and shoving his thighs apart so he could kneel between them on the leather couch.

 

 Still full and dazed and sweat-slick, lost in the crescendo of this submissive space he’d plummeted into, Castiel stared up at him, watched as Crowley shrugged off his shirt and then reached for one of the candles that had been on the side earlier, but that he never remembered either of them lighting. It was alight now, the flame dancing and captivating to his hazy vision.

 

 “There’s nothing more glorious than a fallen angel,” Crowley said, skimming the fingers of his free hand thoughtfully over the flame. Castiel’s knees rested either side of his hips, useless and limp, his cock half-hard and exposed against his belly and his ass still full and aching, tired but hungry. He’d never hated himself as much as he did in that moment. He’d never felt so good.

 

 “Hold onto the back of the chaise, feathers and don’t you let go, you hear me?” Crowley ordered. As soon as Castiel gripped the warm leather, Crowley’s empty hand cupped his neglected, damp cock, massaging him with long, slow strokes. His hips rolled up with the movement, every inch of him burning with sensitivity and need. He was falling again, too fast and too much.

 

 A splash of stinging heat blazed across his pectoral muscle, just below his collarbone and he cried out with shock as he fell another three miles deeper into this dark pleasure. A quick glance down saw a splash of red wax across his skin and above him, Crowley was smiling again, a dangerous sign, the candle aloft in his hand.

 

 “You _are_ falling, aren’t you?” Crowley breathed.

 

 

 

Sweat beaded across Castiel's heaving chest, as he stared up at this man that had sent him hurtling into this torturous pleasure. The candlelight flickered in his eyes and that smirked glistened dangerously. He didn't realise his mouth had parted with shallow, fast pants until a thumb brushed against the damp, swollen lower lip, dipping in to brush against his tongue. Somehow that was the ultimate display of dominance in all of this. He shuddered. His fingers gripped the sofa harder.

 

"That's it," Crowley purred, inclining his hand to tip the candle. The flame tilted and the wax oozed, trickling over the edge and painting Castiel's nipple with a stinging, glorious heat. A strangled groan was tugged from his lips. His body undulated against the leather, hands anchoring him to it as his cock spat pre-come across the soft hairs leading down from his belly button. The thin strip or wax streaked across a tight, tan bud, pinching it as it dried. He was going insane.

 

"Ask me for the next one," Crowley urged. When Castiel just panted, eyes glazed, Crowley reached up and scraped a blunt nail over the hardening wax over his nipple. Castiel twitched, tongue flickering at the thumb resting against it. "Oh," Crowley purred appreciatively, sweeping his damp thumb out to trace the swollen shape of Castiel's mouth before dragging down to pluck the rest of the wax from his nipple. "Ask me, feathers. I've got all night."

 

But Dean didn't and even as Castiel's lips struggled to form words, he knew it wasn't entirely about Dean anymore. "No," he breathed. Those fingers splayed lazily over his toned stomach, over his swollen, pink cock, down to press the shaft protruding from his clenching entrance, pushing it deeper inside with a sticky wet sound.

 

 Everything felt swollen and tender inside. His head tipped back on reflex to the rush of heat spreading through him over and over like a never ending tide. Crowley was fucking him with it now, giving his greedy ass the pounding it craved. His body was shaking with it, an intensity building to such a peak that when Crowley's hand stilled he snarled out, "please! Please!"

 

"Say it!" Crowley snapped, his voice resonating in the suddenly too hot room.

 

"More!" Castiel cried out, wretched and rough. A thick splash of wax crashed across his abdomen and he cried out again with anguished relief. Crowley grabbed the base of the smooth silicone and fucked him deep and hard, sending him shuddering again as he dripped another scalding drip across the hard line of his chiselled stomach. Again. Again. Again. Great sweeping thin splashes of heat painted his torso, Crowley's eyes above him intense and appreciative, hungry.

 

His skin was shining with sweat and drying wax and his muscles tensed to definition, to breaking point. When the fiery pleasure kissed the point of his other nipple he gave a scream of defeat, knees gripping Crowley's hips unwittingly as his own arched and fell back to the sweat slicked leather. The hand between his legs dragged the silicone from him with a rough jerk and he could do nothing more than gasp, insides spread open and clenching obscenely around nothing. He was done, defeated, lost and he had no idea why he thought that would mean it was over. He should've known better.

 

Heat splashed against the underside of his cock and he writhed, raw throat tearing in a scream. The shock of the brand of pleasure and mild echo of pain that accompanied it, they only pushed the heat to blinding heights. The candle was discarded then, Crowley hooking a hand under one of his knees and flipping him over roughly until he was on his knees with his hips in the air. He didn't even try to get his arms up under him. His waxed-streaked chest was pressed onto the chaise and Crowley's hand smoothed against his nape with feigned softness, coercing his head to the side.

 

"Absolutely ruined," Crowley purred in bliss, grasping Castiel's cheeks and spreading them wide so he could look at the stretched, slick hole. He squeezed more of the oil down between the valley of those cheeks, watching as it dripped into the open pink ring, as the rim twitched. "Such a flirt," Crowley chuckled, and shifted forwards, the tip of his prick sinking in.

 

God help him, the girth blazed and it blazed good. Castiel's fingers curled on the leather beneath him. Crowley's bulkier body bent over him, covering him, lips brushing against his ear as he sank in with one hot, slippery stroke, continuing on and on, too thick and too long and driving the breath from his cramped lungs as it filled him completely. The curly coarse hair at the base of Crowley's cock ground against his cheeks, that bristly mouth worried a spot on his neck made him quiver around the hot prick buried inside him. It was bigger, hotter, thicker - overwhelming and he was burning for more.

 

 The tired, soft muscles of his entrance welcomed the invasion, could but up no protest even if he’d had the strength of will left to offer one. All the breath was pushed from his lungs and a possessive hand splayed over the back of his thigh. “Your twat is a lot sweeter than your talk, feathers,” Crowley murmured against the shell of his ear, dragging his teeth over it and shifting his hips, grinding in deep, circling, stretching him impossibly and making Castiel claw at the leather. “How’s that feel?”

 

 Slow, deep, hard thrusts now, coring him open, dragging sounds like that of those desperate, head-spaced subs made for Lucifer. He didn’t care. His wax-flecked muscles and throbbing prick were trapped against the chaise as Crowley bore down, making him splay his thighs wider to hold himself up and accommodate him. The position let him rut against the chaise with each lurch into his body from the man above, let him grind into it like a dog in heat and he loved and hated it.

 

 “I asked you how it feels,” Crowley demanded, drawing back upright, the absence of his body heat making Castiel shiver. Rough fingers slid down his sides, one sliding back up to press on the back of his neck, hold him in place as he slammed into him, hard. The drag back out made Castiel hiss, the stretching girth feeling like he was dragging his soul back out through him before slamming back in. Every unforgiving thrust cast a teasing, maddening glance at his prostate that made him jerk with frustrated need as he spiralled down the last few feet into submissive madness and felt heat burst through him.

 

 “Hot!” He cried out, his voice rough and angry and full of hatred that it sounded foreign even to him, even as he took everything Crowley offered and his body sang with it. The door had been opened and there was no going back.

 

 “Yeah?” Crowley goaded. “That sloppy little cunt feeling hot for me is it? It’s just sucking me right in.” He shifted on his knees a little, driving down as he pushed in, fucking wet, hard, hot against that place that made Castiel swear in a way that would’ve made Dean Winchester proud.

 

 Suddenly Crowley wrenched out of him, staggering back off the chaise and slapping his ass hard. The blow made Castiel’s abused muscles clench and he grunted, hating how bereft and betrayed he felt at having that special place tortured and teased, bringing him closer to the pleasure he’d sunk reluctantly into before having it torn away. He felt cold here, vulnerable.

 

 Crowley shoved him until he was standing, staring down as the king himself settled once more, back against the chaise, seated up right with his legs almost together. He still wore his trousers but they were open still, cock angry and thick and long, arching up against his stomach, shiny with juices that made Castiel’s face flame hotter than before.

 

 There was no teasing words then, no coaxing jibes. Crowley reached forward, hands cupping his thighs just below his ass cheeks and tugging him forward by them. He staggered, dazed with lust and the submissive rush until he was kneeling over Crowley, the man’s rough stubbly mouth grazing over a wax-flecked nipple. Those teeth. They scraped away the wax, letting it fall away before hot lips sucked the abused, sensitive flesh in. Castiel cried out, a sound torn between a grunt and a gasp, hands flying, grasping the safe, neutral zone of the chaise either side Crowley’s head.

 

 Hands slid up from his thighs to massage his ass, spreading him wide and Castiel tensed, mortification rushing through him again, stronger than he’d ever felt possible as his loose entrance leaked the slick lubricating oil. The sticky slide of it against his thigh, down onto Crowley’s clothed thigh was too much. Endorphins rushed up and threatened to throttle him and he made a choked sound. The mouth around his nipple widened with a smirk, fingers trailing through the sticky mess of his thigh.

 

 “Look at that, leaking over me like a real pussy, aren’t you, angel?” Crowley twisted his head to suck at his throat, fingers smearing the escaped oil back over Castiel’s hole. “Ready to sink back onto me?”

 

 Castiel's vision swam, tensing his arms to hide the way they shook. He was completely submerged in this feeling now, drowning in it. He could feel those fingers dipping in and out, not enough to fill him, just sliding the escaped oil back in, teasing his stretched muscles so that Castiel would feel it, couldn't forget. Ruined, that's what he'd said. Castiel felt it. He felt it when Crowley guided the scorching crown of his prick to kiss his perineum and he shifted his knees, the movement dragging Crowley's cock against his opening. He had no idea why but his eyes found Crowley's then and he held them, even as he lowered himself and a choked sound spilled over his lips.

 

 Crowley's oil slicked fingers slid up to splay over his thighs, squeezing, massaging as Castiel let gravity and need drag him down. His muscles clenched but in appreciation now, slippery and hot and needy, swallowing Crowley's girth readily. He groaned roughly, rocking back, taking it deep. Crowley's eyes saw right through to his soul, he could break him at any moment, probably would and yet he couldn't stop.

 

 He was grinding back of his own accord into Crowley's thrusts now, fucking himself against him even as his insides coiled with mortification. He tilted his body a fraction, bringing each sharp, roll of his hips down at just the right angle. It brought that fire back inside him, made him shudder, made him rock back harder and more urgently. The pleasure was his to chase now, he was close enough that he didn't care how he got it, too deep into the mind set to question. Crowley's hands slid up his back, caressing taut smooth muscles gripping his shoulders and pulling him down so their torsos slid together with every sinuous movement.

 

 The new position trapped Castiel's leaking cock between their bodies, sweat slicked muscles squeezing with every push-pull. He tensed tried to move back but the hands on his shoulders held on, not letting him stop, not letting him slide away. If he thought he'd been in control for a second he was mistaken. The position forced him to humiliate himself but Crowley still held him, forced him onto hard rhythmic thrusts. Anything he'd been about to protest or say was fucked out of him, Crowley grinded into his prostate mercilessly and pushing up against him to squeeze his cock between them.

 

 “That's ok feathers, you grind that pretty cock over me as much as you want," he purred, voice rough and twisted with the jerks of their bodies. "You take that cock like you were made for it."

Castiel's head hung forward on his shoulders and he shook it, gripping the back of the chaise to steady himself as the tsunami of pleasure reared up again.

 

 "Yes you do," Crowley grunted. Their bodies were roiling together slick and fluid. Driven by heat. "You like it driving up into that slut hole."

 

 He couldn't stop. He was so close to something, to explosion. He needed it more than he needed air. So close. His cock throbbed between them and then Crowley's hand snuck in and grasped it, stroking hard and fast and he these his head back and cried out a rough, strangled sound.

 

 Wet dirty sounds punctuated the air, loud in the empty room, from his ass, from his cock as he fucked Crowley’s hand. His own voice was ragged and low but echoed in the dimly lit room. Crowley’s fingers were rough and wet with pre-come and oil, fisting him roughly until no amount of rigid tension in his limbs could hide the shudders.

 

 “Give it to me, angel, that’s it,” Crowley breathed, free hand snagging hold of Castiel’s hair and tugging him down hard so their mouths could lock. The kiss was a messy mesh of parted lips, Castiel groaning wretchedly into him, Crowley murmuring debauched things that helped chase his pleasure toward the peak. “You fuck my hand and my cock and you come all over me like the dirty little faggot you are. You think Dean Winchester would ever fuck you like this? You think he could ever give you what your depraved little heart desires? He doesn’t see through you, wings, he doesn’t know what you need…”

 

 His hand twisted, thumb rubbing with each upward stroke against the underside of his tip. His cock was lunging in deep, driving the breath out of him, driving all pent up pleasure and need from the tight knot of his prostate.

 

 “…you need to be made to feel like shit to get off, made to feel like the worthless little whore you are. You think honourable _Dean_ would give you that? Think he’d have the balls to fuck you over the way you need, even if he knew you?” He did kiss Castiel then, smashing their lips together, tasting his tongue, drawing back so a line of spittle connecting their swollen mouths. “I know you, baby. I own you. Now give it up for me.”

 

 That last shred he’d managed to hold back broke somewhere inside him, somewhere deep in his belly and Castiel shuddered, snarled out a ragged, defeated cry against that mouth. Castiel’s slick passage gripped tight as his body twisted with tremors and Crowley fucked him hard, deep fast all the way through it. He was dimly aware of the noises he was making but was as powerless to stop them as he was to stop the intense bursts of white-hot pleasure pounding through his veins.

 

 His cock spat thick spurts of come across Crowley’s hand, across his torso, the mess sliding between them as they continued to move together. Crowley’s hand kept stroking, his cock fucking him more ruthlessly, chasing every drop of pleasure from him until he was sprawled over him, limp and useless and still taking it. When Castiel grunted at the sensitivity in his spent prick, Crowley squeezed him, giving him a few more rough strokes before letting it fall limp and wet between them.

 

 Crowley pushed him roughly onto his back, lifting his hips up into his lap so Castiel’s body was still at an obscene slant, his come, wax and sweat streaked torso glistening in the low light. His softening cock was on display and his legs still limp around Crowley’s waist as the man bore into him, dragging his fingernails over his swollen nipples.

 

 Castiel was sore inside but there were still those little ghosting blows to his prostate, still the slick looseness to overused muscles and Castiel just stared, dazed and defeated at into that dangerous smile. The one that said Crowley knew he’d won and that he relished that more than anything else that’d happened tonight.

 

 “I’m going to come so deep up your loose little twat you’re going to be feeling me for days,” Crowley growled, the thrusts deep but rolling now, barely leaving Castiel’s body, grinding inside and just riding the twitching slickness within. “You’re going to go liberate your lady love with me dribbling down your thighs and you’ll know then that you’ll never be able to feel like you did with me.” He pulled Castiel’s hips hard into him now, leaning up into him, gritting his teeth.

 

 Now Crowley was hardly moving at all, grinding inside with minute jerks, scalding heat filling Castiel’s body, painting his raw insides. The man’s fingers splayed up over his sticky torso, scraping just this side of painful, breathing hard and heavy. Then Crowley pulled out of him, the motion rough and careless and leaving him sprawled breathless and empty on the chaise.

 

 “Hurry up then, feathers, before little Dean gets himself into mischief,” Crowley said lightly, a spring in his voice as he began redressing.

 

 For a moment, Castiel could only stare up at the ceiling, the oppressive harsh lighting glaring down at him. A chill crept over his damp skin and he swept a hand over his eyes, wincing as he felt Crowley leaking out of him. He’d never felt so utterly…fallen, Crowley had said it right. Fallen. Ruined.

 

  _Dean_.

 

 He clenched his teeth around any sounds of pain as he scrabbled for his clothes back out in the bar. Carefully avoiding looking himself in the mirror. They didn’t have time for self-pity or self-loathing, to indulge in wretchedness. He’d done plenty of that already.

 

 Hastily, he pulled on his shirt, but not before using one of the clean bar towels to wipe away any traces of come and wax and sweat he could. He tossed it in the bin behind the bar and found his coat. Even the layers of clothing didn’t help. He still felt bare, rubbed raw and exposed. He did glance at himself in the mirror then because he knew, just knew what he would see. What Dean would see.

 

  _Forgive me Father, for I have sinned._ Sin had never seemed so real a crime until now. Against everything he was.

 

 “You look a little better for that,” Crowley said as he approached, his eyes glinting in his reflection. “Needed a good, degrading fuck, didn’t you?”

 

 Castiel shrugged off the hand that settled on his shoulder, hate blooming in his chest, not for Crowley – or at least not just for him. Because the bastard was right, he did feel better for it, physically at least. His body had enjoyed it and that just made it all the worse. “Let’s go,” he snapped roughly through gritted teeth. “You get Dean out. That was the deal. Now, no more games.”

 

 Crowley held his hands up in a feigned submissive gesture. “I’m not getting involved with Lucifer. I’ve got some… _friends_ who can draw him away and I’ll grab him for you, but then I’m dropping him on you and you can get him out of there. I’m not sticking my neck out for anymore Winchesters.” He seemed thoughtful for a second and then gave a wicked grin. “You just wait here, princess.” And before Castiel could say another word, he was gone.

 

 Panic beating hard in his chest, despair throttling him, he whirled back to the mirror behind the bar and stared at himself, hard. He looked exactly the same on the outside, except for a light flush high on his cheekbones and neck. But the darkness was swallowing him fast. He gave a snarl of anguish and seized the nearest bar stool, throwing it at his reflection and watching the pieces shatter, dance to the floor like a rain of glistening sharp puzzle pieces that could never be put back together again.

 

 Breathing heavy, still reeling from the fear and the orgasm and everything else, he slid to the floor and closed his eyes.

 

*

 

 A harsh thud sounded, loud and echoing in the silent club. Castiel jerked into movement and staggered to his feet, only to see Dean gripping the balustrade as he tried to take the stairs up onto the main floor toward him. Drawn as if by magnetic force, Castiel made his way over, silent, the part of him that knew how to form words still lost somewhere in that dark submissive state Crowley had sent him tumbling into. When he grasped Dean’s shoulder, bare where his ragged, torn and bloody shirt was hanging off it slightly, the heat from his skin was a balm to his icy fingers.

 

 “Jesus, Cas, you’re freezing,” Dean complained with a wince, nevertheless grasping Castiel’s shoulder for support in return as he helped him over to one of the circular booths. The seats there were leather and well cushioned. He helped Dean sprawl across one and pushed the table back out of the way so he could assess him. His shirt was bloody, torn from shallow, thin but numerous gashes and there was a slice just above his eyebrow that was weeping blood down his face, a bead of dried blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Yet he looked whole.

 

 Castiel’s breath hitched. He froze.

 

 “You gonna tell me what this place is?” Dean asked, prodding at the cut on his forehead with a wince. “Or why Crowley dragged me out of there and just dumped me here?” He must’ve realised then that Castiel wasn’t paying attention because he tilted his head slightly toward the hand still gripping his shoulder. “Hey. You with me, man?”

 

 Castiel shook his head, not in answer but in an attempt to escape the clawing, clinging feelings trying to drag him back down to that dark place. “We aren’t due to rendezvous with Sam for two days. We need to get your injuries looked at and get moving.” He steeled himself against the memories, against the needy tremors still pulsing through him, cloying for recognition and did what needed to be done. He started to pull the shreds of Dean’s shirt over his head.

 

 “Cas, _stop,_ just stop and minute and–” He was cut off as the shirt was pulled clean off his head and tossed away. Castiel successfully avoided meeting his eyes as he dug around behind the bar for a first aid kit. It was in plain sight thankfully and he brought it back and pulled it open, probably taking longer than he needed to find suitable dressing. If his powers, his healing abilities weren’t so shaky after everything sharing his body with Lucifer had brought about, this would be a lot simpler.

 

 When he lifted a tube of anti-septic cream, Dean’s fingers clenched tight around his wrist. He jerked but did not manage to escape that grasp.

 

 “You tell me what’s going on here,” Dean demanded firmly, eyes so close, ferocious and shining. Then his wounded brow furrowed as if he were only just noticing something. “What’s wrong?”

 

 Castiel winced and tried to draw back but the fingers locked around his wrists tightened, holding him in place. Dean wasn’t hurt too badly, apparently, that was good. He needed to put space between them before this feeling, this needy drop swallowing him up made him say or do something stupid he could never take back.

 

 “Lucifer,” Castiel managed roughly, “what did he want with you?”

 

 Dean gave an exasperated sigh. “Who knows what he wants? He took a few chunks out of me and vanished. I barely saw him, what’s…?” He trailed off then, eyes darting to the doorway he’d come through, then Castiel again. He released his wrist, looked around the club again. “What did you do? You’ve got this… _haunted_ look on your face.” But it wasn’t just that, Castiel knew it and in the few dreadful moments of silence that followed, he watched Dean worked it out.

 

 Ice speared his chest.

 

 “Crowley had this smug look on his face when he dumped me here,” Dean murmured darkly, looking away. “He said…said the same crap he usually did, I guess. Something about him being the king and you…” He closed his lips tight around whatever he’d been about to repeat in distaste.

 

 Castiel tried not to think about all the witty, revolting things Crowley might’ve come up with. He’d been kneeling up to tend to Dean’s injuries but now he sank down, forearms resting on the seat of the booth next to him, covering his face with his hands. Tired. He was so tired and cold and isolated down here in this place that Crowley had let him tumble like a used rag.

 

 “Why’d you do something so stupid?” Dean asked, voice rough and low. “I’m not worth–”

 

 “Yes you are!” Castiel snapped, his voice louder than it had been all night, resounding and foreboding as it ricocheted off the walls. He stared hard up into Dean’s face, expression tense. “You’re worth it and more. Don’t dishonour the sacrifice by saying it wasn’t worth it. It’s like spitting on the ashes of a man who has just burned for you.” Intensity roared up in his throat and he knew Dean felt it, because he sat back a little, as if stunned by the blast of its heat.

 

 Visibly, Dean swallowed, brow still furrowed with incomprehension. “So why that?” he asked at last. “I don’t get it.”

 

 Castiel turned away again, staring down at the place where his fingers curled on the leather seat, a dark echo of the way they had earlier on the leather of the chaise in the back room. “Because I’d seen Lucifer do similar things and I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist,” he said simply, as if it really were that easy. The self-wretchedness in his tone was liberating. Dean knew, but he didn’t know all of it. He had to, because that was the only way to get him away from him before he found out the worst.

 

 “Demons are twisted creatures. You know better than most that they relish in twisting our darkest desires and fears for their own gain,” he met Dean’s eyes again unflinchingly, daring him to understand. When he said nothing, Castiel clarified, “he saw something in me. Something a darker part of me wanted, perhaps, something I’d never contemplated consciously but both revelled in and reviled at the same time. He took advantage of it, in exchange for you. That’s all.” That was all Dean would ever know, he hoped. He pushed to his feet, dropping the tin first aid box into Dean’s lap and turning away. “I’ll find a phone, call Sam, he can come pick you up.”

 

 As he reached the payphone in the corner, however, something crashed against it. The first aid tin smashed into the PVC jutting from the side, making it crack before tumbling to the floor, the supplies scattering everywhere. Castiel whirled to find Dean pushing to his feet, glaring at him across the room. “Don’t you look away from me,” he said warningly. “You don’t get to be noble about this. Cut the crap and say what you feel!”

 

 Castiel turned his head away. His first mistake. Wounded or not, Dean was across the room, slamming into him, hands pinning him to the wall beside the phone, curling into angry fists around the material of his jacket as he held him in place. His injuries weren’t bleeding but they must have stung with every breath, by the very way Dean’s lean muscles tensed where they held him. If they did, his expression betrayed none of it. Only rage and hurt held root there, eyes still shining in that way that threatened to undo the fickle resolve Castiel clung to.

 

 “Look at me, dammit!” Dean almost growled. “Really look at me and tell me it was nothing.”

 

 “Let me call Sam,” Castiel protested. The fingers in the fabric of his jacket on either shoulder squeezed tighter.

 

 “Forget Sam for a minute!” Dean snapped. “Forget what you think you’re meant to say and do and just tell me what’s going through that head of yours!”

 

 Castiel looked at him levelly. “We all have our demons, Crowley found mine,” he said, voice low and finite. That was all he would offer. Dean wasn’t an idiot. Castiel could already see the awareness of what he wasn’t saying in those eyes. It didn’t seem to change his mind. The hands on his shoulders loosened a little but did not let go and Dean didn’t draw away.

 

 “Just because you…it didn’t mean…it doesn’t make you some kind of…” Dean’s halting words trailed off then as he set his jaw, a gesture Castiel hadn’t realised earlier, but that he himself had seemed to have inherited from him. He spent so much time watching this man, watching, _wanting_ …

 

 “Why’d you do it, Cas?” Dean murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper, head bowed slightly forward so that their foreheads were almost touching. Those eyes were thankfully closed for the moment, allowing Castiel to breathe easily, to offer an honest answer up from the needy subspace that made him say what he felt no matter the consequences his logical mind would reap later.

 

 It was as easy as breathing to reply in a voice as rough and quiet as Dean’s had been. “You know why.”

 

 That head snapped up a fraction, eyes flying open, almost glistening in the light of the bar that’d made Crowley looked deranged earlier. Just like Crowley’s earlier though, Dean’s eyes saw right through him for probably the first time and what little breath Castiel had clawed into his lungs now stuttered and stuck. Strong fingers flattened on his shoulders now, moving slightly, up and down the curve of flesh and bone. It wasn’t until they gripped his neck that he realised he was shaking again. He closed his eyes now. He thought he was done with falling but this was a new depth of lost, spiralling out of control because now Dean really did know everything and there was no level ground to hold on to.

 

 “Guess I do know,” those lips murmured, disturbing the air right in front of his own. This headspace was dangerous, making him admit things that no one was ever meant to hear. Yet the thrill of it rushed through him in one rough exhalation, a noisy whisper that Dean swallowed as he brought their mouths together.

 

 A tinge of blood tinged the flavour of that mouth. He didn’t care. It was so good, too good and he had to escape it. Dean planted one hand flat on the wall beside his head when he tried to move away, pinning him with his body while the other hand swept up his neck, thumb pressing just under his jaw. He knew this body had felt kisses and more before but this was the first time he had ever been the one drowning in intoxication behind it. He scrabbled at the back of Dean’s neck, gripping the short hairs and kissing back hard, offering a groan into that mouth and feeling the sweet vibrations when it was answered.

 

 Until he remembered. He wrenched his head to the side, cursing his laboured breathing. “We can’t,” he managed roughly.

 

 “Why the hell not?” Dean breathed, low and smooth but ragged, pressing his nose into Castiel’s jaw and letting his mouth graze the light stubble starting to grow there. It was feather-light and somehow more intense than anything he’d felt earlier. Castiel drew in a breath and pushed hard at Dean’s chest, enough to separate them a few inches.

 

 “Because he’s still on me.” _In me_ , his mind added silently. God Crowley was all over him inside and out and Dean was doing the things he’d never even dared to dream about. He gave a small, unhinged, wounded sound of laughter that was completely unfunny. He dragged a hand over his face and headed for the door.

 

 “Where do you think you’re going?” Dean demanded, a wince crossing his features as he snagged hold of his arm to still him as his foot touched the first stair. Castiel didn’t turn to face him.

 

 “To find somewhere we can lay low while we look at your injuries and I wash Crowley off of me,” he said stoically, glancing toward the booth they’d been sitting so closely at a moment ago. “Bring their first aid kit. We’ll need it.” To his relief, for probably the first time since they’d met, Dean listened and followed without a word.

 

 If he thought that was the end of it, he was mistaken.

 

 They found a seedy motel a few blocks away that didn’t raise an eye at the handful of crumpled notes dragged from Dean’s jeans pocket or the mussed look of the pair of them, Dean’s lip weeping blood again from the force of their kiss earlier. They settled into the room in silence, everything brown and faded but the mattress and bathroom clean.

 

 Castiel took an eternity in the shower, scrubbing at himself long after the water had turned cold and wincing as he reached back to try and clean himself out. Even when he used the water from the detachable shower head back there he still swore he felt Crowley inside, deep where he couldn’t reach even with soapy fingers that stung and burned his abused passage.

 

 He wasn’t torn but swollen and puffy back there, insides sensitive and burning even as he’d washed out the soap. He didn’t care. Dripping wet when he finally stepped out of the shower, he smeared the condensation away from the mirror and stared at himself. He was a mess. Hair hanging wet and dripping rivulets of water down his face.

 

 The wax had been low heat and had left no marks but there were bruises on his hips and one on his neck. He sneered at the man in the mirror, an echo of those helpless depths he’d sunk to still lingering if he stopped and considered the night at all, making him feel shaky and needy and pathetic. He grit his teeth. He didn’t stop. He pulled one of the rough, over washed towels from the back of the door and wrapped it round himself, heading back into the main room.

 

 Dean had turned the television on and it, combined with the one bedside lamp cast an odd ethereal glow on the dim room. An old black and white film was playing and Dean was sitting on the end of the bed with the stolen first aid tin open, applying a butterfly bandage to his own brow with considerable wasted effort. Castiel knotted the towel round himself tightly, approaching Dean and taking the self-adhesive bandage from him without a word. He’d managed to apply antiseptic and bandages to his torso at least, more to protect them than to stem any bleeding, that was good at least, but then he supposed Winchesters knew how to dress wounds.

 

 “Why didn’t he hurt you more?” Castiel found himself asking as he carefully applied the butterfly bandage just over Dean’s eyebrow. Dean winced, hand reaching instinctively, as if to bat away the pain before dropping uselessly. Their faces were so close and Castiel had one knee resting on the bed beside him. He swallowed, hastening to finish his task.

 

 “Hell if I know,” Dean growled, irritated. “Wasn’t part of his plan. He probably thought we had more time together. No one could get in after all…”

 

 Except another demon, except Crowley, which meant that at least his so-called sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. Castiel’s breath came a little easier now as he smoothed the last stretch of bandage into place but as he moved to draw back, one of Dean’s hands hooked the back of his thigh, just behind the knee resting on the bed, holding him there. Castiel stared down into those eyes, so bright in the dim room, reflecting the light off the television and the dull lamp, shining bright than both combined.

 

 “We gonna talk about what happened now?” Dean asked roughly, his breath dusting against Castiel’s collarbone. He remembered then that he was naked except for a towel and still damp all over. A droplet of water shuddered down off the end of his nose, catching on Dean’s cheek. Neither of them moved but he watched as Dean’s throat moved when he swallowed.

 

 “We can,” Castiel began carefully. “Lucifer must have been–”

 

 “Not about me, you dick,” Dean snapped, the fingers behind Castiel’s thigh tensing, the other hand gripping his forearm, as if he was barely refraining from shaking him. “About what Crowley did to you! He raped you!”

 

 “I offered.”

 

  _I enjoyed it._

 

 “Because that makes it so much better,” Dean grunted impatiently. “Talk to me! You’ve scrubbed yourself red raw and you’re still going to pretend it’s nothing? You’ve seen me in worse shape, come on.” His tone was just as rough and raw but almost pleading now.

 

 “There’s nothing to say. I made a deal. I’m not…traumatised by it, if that’s what you were thinking.” And didn’t that just make him an awful person? A thing? Because it’d all felt so fucking good and if it had been anyone else but Crowley, he wouldn’t have felt this way? He tugged but Dean did not release him. He set his jaw. The acts themselves had felt good. “I fell into a…strange mindset afterwards, aftershocks of the endorphin rush and the situation, I suppose but it’s gone now. There’s nothing more to be said.”

 

 “Don’t bullshit me,” Dean warned dangerously. He studied Castiel’s eyes hard. “Cas, just talk to me.” He could see every flickering thought and flutter of pain in those eyes. Dean was worried about being sensitive to what had happened, worried about what he was feeling, if he wanted to be touched, if he didn’t. Castiel had seen the type of reaction Dean was waiting for, knew what he was waiting to break through.

 

 “Crowley and I are complicated,” he tried then, the only way he could see to escape and put some much needed distance between them, because he had to, because Dean was so close it ached and any resistance was stretched thin. The kiss in the club was so fresh he could still feel it on his lips, still taste the metallic tang of blood. He’d yearned for this closeness for so long but if he took it now, then Dean would fully see what he was and that was unbearable.

 

 “Rape survivors suffer unimaginable torment and degradation, a stripping of their souls. I don’t want you to associate me with the things,” he began, letting his wrist fall to his side but it still remained captive by those strong fingers, as did his thigh, just below the place where the towel reached.

 

 Dean tilted his head up a fraction in defiance. “Why?” he shot back, voice grave, “because he did things to you that you’d never even imagined and you came like a freight train?”

 

 A hard, icy spear of shock lanced Castiel’s chest and he stared, lips slightly parted with dismayed shock into that face he thought of more than anything. He thought even if he lost his own name and soul he’d still remember that face. He could feel his limbs twitching with those awful tremors, feel the way Dean squeezed his wrist and thigh as if to steady him.

 

 No. How could he know? How could he see? He couldn’t bear it. He felt as if his skin had been flayed away, burned away by ice and now this man could see each of his ugly, purpled innards and this black, squirming thing in his chest that Crowley had brought to life, wanted more of.

 

 His lips were dry, he moistened them, feeling them cling together as he managed a rough, “How?”

 

 A sad smile was offered up to him but _still_ he was not released. When he wanted to submerge himself in the stream of the cold shower until he couldn’t breathe, see or be seen. He curled his fingers in on his palm until blunt nails dug in, fist shaking.

 

 “Because you’re a damn martyr, that’s why,” Dean murmured, “because you’re so quick to accept pain and suffering, so noble about it and the one thing you never talk about is pleasure.” He turned his gaze downward then, eyes roving the sparse water droplets rolling slowly down Castiel’s hard, tense stomach. “Besides. I’ve been to hell, I know what they can do to you there…”

 

 Somehow, Castiel’s fingers moved, uncoiled from their safe place, reached up for Dean. They were caught, palm held up, a rough thumb gracing the deep gouges carved by his own nails tenderly, soothing. How many similar ‘tortures’ under the guise of pleasure had Dean suffered while he was in purgatory? He winced. It didn’t bear thinking about. Dean had faced unimaginable pain and pleasure no doubt and every plain somewhere in between.

 

 He’d been an ignorant fool to assume Dean wouldn’t know. Crowley had been a blind savage, knowing everything about how to break a man and nothing about this one, who’d faced it all and was still above all the rest. Castiel was still shaking but now it was in awe and need and relief so sweet he choked on it.

 

 A breath released him so fast he _did_ choke and then their mouths were together again, hard and desperate, melding together with the faintest taste of blood and the damp flicker of shower water that clung to him. He wrenched his hand free and let his fingers dive into soft short strands, tugging urgently, wanting to pull Dean into him as deep as possible. Their tongues slid together with desperation unknown and Castiel groaned into him because this man _did_ know him and he was still grabbing at him as if he would starve to death without him.

 

 The weight of their tangled limbs sent them both sprawling back across the bed, Dean borne onto his back, fingers catching Castiel’s bare thighs so that he moved with his body. Castiel fell astride him easily, body flat against Dean’s, soaking his clothes and the towel had come loose between them but they didn’t care. He braced himself with a forearm beside Dean’s head, threading fingers through his hair tighter and tugging, just enough to make Dean grunt into his mouth. The vibration was sweet torturous bliss.

 

 Dean’s fingers slid over his exposed, damp cheeks, scraping the firm muscles with his nails and gripping, massaging, spreading, massaging again, unwittingly urging their hips together in a slow rocking rhythm as they clung to each other. They were rutting against each other through layers of wet cloth, gasping for air into each other’s mouths and it was the most blindingly spectacular thing either of them had felt. So much need, trapped so long and now it was like a violent, flooded river that had burst its banks.

 

 Reluctantly dragging his lips away to draw breath, Castiel brushed their noses together, let his mouth touch a stubbly jaw and drank in the smell of him, of them together. Cheap brand shampoo, antiseptic and sex had never smelt so good.

 

 “I don’t give a shit what Crowley did,” Dean managed raggedly, still gripping his ass with one hand as the other slid up to grasp a handful of wet hair. “Want you. If you want.” There was so much heat in those words whispered so close to his kiss-bruised mouth.

 

 The answer Castiel was about to give was jerked from his lungs as Dean shoved him onto his back, kneeling between his damp thighs with only a hint of the towel covering him now. Castiel pushed up onto his elbows, seeing Dean, his chest already spectacularly on display except for the bandages, now reaching for his belt. He jerked it and his fly open impatiently but as he glanced down at Castiel to start shoving them off his hips, he froze.

 

 Castiel glared, seeing the uncertainty and frustrating nobility there. Funny, how something that was such an important quality to him usually was now the very thing that might push him into madness. Dean had been on that pedestal for so long for him and now they’d both wrestled him off it so wonderfully, his fervent, hidden desires were all rushing forth at once. He needed everything, everything dirty, depraved and everything warm and chaste – everything. Anything Dean could give.

 

 “I’m not broken,” he said, voice low, defiant, daring Dean to challenge him on that. What Crowley had done hadn’t been right but it hadn’t shattered him either. He’d offered an odd, twisted sort of dubious consent and his body had revelled in it, dropping into despair only when that submissive rush had dragged him greedily, into a place where no affection or comfort would be offered to him when he needed it. When Dean just watched him Castiel hooked a hand in his open jeans, tugging him forward so Dean was the one sprawled over him this time.

 

 Dean gave a grunt as he just caught himself above him, a hand on the clean sheets. Castiel brought their mouths together messily, all tongue with lips just barely touching and then dragged his lips over to brush a flushed earlobe. “Don’t you dare stop,” he breathed, punctuating the words by sucking the tender flesh into his mouth, biting gently.

 

 With a strangled sound of pleasure, Dean writhed against him, at the same time shoving his jeans and underwear down to his ankles where he hurriedly kicked everything away from them. When there was nothing between them but the rough towel, Castiel pushed it away impatiently, parting his legs a little more to welcome Dean into the cradle of his thighs. He pushed up, just enough to bring their groins together and at the first, electric glancing brush of skin, Dean sank down onto him.

 

 Castiel’s mouth released him, nose and lips pressed against the peak of that fine jaw as Dean’s body melted onto his. Dean’s hand rested just above Castiel’s shoulder, fingers feathering against his neck in a way that made him shiver, chest pressed tight to Dean’s so that with every tight movement he felt peaked nipples drag against his skin. Dean’s legs knotted with his urgently and a hard cock slid against the apex of his thigh.

 

 “I’ve waited my entire existence for this,” Castiel murmured roughly, dragging his nose against the fine stubble as they fit together so perfectly. He rolled his hips up, urging Dean into answering movement so that they just rocked with lazy pushes of their hips. “For you.”

 

 “You must have some pretty high expectations,” Dean panted, tilting his head just enough to graze Castiel’s throat, right above his throbbing pulse, right above the light bruise that Crowley had left earlier. He dragged stubbly lips over it, eliciting a sharp gasp of pained pleasure from Castiel’s lips and soothed the sting with his tongue before doing it again. “Hope I don’t disappoint,” he said lightly, hoarsely, teasingly.

 

 Castiel cupped his neck, urging him on. At that moment Dean’s other hand reached between them and then their cocks were sliding together, grinding perfectly in stuttered thrusts. They both groaned but Dean’s sounds were stifled by his flesh, sending vibrations through his skin which Dean sucked, hard. Castiel arched up, hips jutting harshly as a bead of pre-come wept from the tip of his swollen, oversensitive cock, lubricating each delicious slide of Dean’s heavy erection against him.

 

There had been the faintest of marks on his neck there from earlier, now it throbbed under Dean’s harsh, biting sucks, drawn to the point of warm pain before Dean released him. Softer, briefer passes of Dean’s lips over his collarbone and the hollow of his throat gentled the rush of endorphins. He felt the place Dean had abused throb dully and knew there would be a darker, harsher bruise. His blood pounded in his veins at the thought. He dug his fingers into Dean’s shoulders in appreciation, fucking up hard against his cock.

 

 “That’s it, right there,” Dean grunted, his hips pushing back, letting their cocks slide together and brushing the pad of his thumb over one of the still over sensitised buds on Castiel’s chest. Castiel’s breathing hitched, his knees drawing up to grip Dean’s hips but as he used them to hold him closer, to try and pull their hips into tighter rhythm, he felt those hands catch under the backs of his knees. The next moment they were pressed into his shoulders, straining the muscles in his legs wonderfully and making each already ragged breath a little harder to take in.

 

 Dean pushed up from him, hovering over him, pinning him to the bed by his folded limbs and staring breathless and flushed down into his face. “You sure this is what you want right now?” he asked roughly, just once.

 

 Castiel let his hazy gaze travel down from his face to his chest, damp with the beginnings of perspiration and his own shower-damp skin, to his hard, tight stomach and the swollen length of his prick that stood up against the trail of hair leading down to his groin. When Castiel didn’t answer, one of Dean’s hands that had been holding his knee to his shoulder slid down, palm caressing the expanse of flesh on the back of his thigh and further down, until fingertips caressed the still swollen, puckered, pink flesh of his twitching ring.

                                                                                                                            

 “Jesus, Cas,” Dean let out a low exhale, thumb now brushing over it with apparent reverence. “You’re so hot.” He lifted his thumb to flick his tongue against it, wet it with saliva before pressing slightly in. He groaned huskily as Castiel’s pliant heat sucked the tip in readily. “So soft,” he murmured, dragging the tip out, then back in again until Castiel emitted a little gasp of his own that drew his eyes back to his face. “We don’t have to do this right now…there’s other stuff,” he said, sounding unsure, completely out of his depth and completely endearing with it, with a fog of arousal hanging over it all.

 

 Castiel wondered for a minute if the thought of taking him when he was still tenderised all over from Crowley was the reason for Dean’s hesitation rather than just misplaced concern. “I…In the shower, I…” He ground his teeth at his inability to form words when he needed them most. “I’m clean,” he managed, though his voice wasn’t as strong as he wanted.

 

 Dean’s reaction was instantaneous. He leant in closer, pushing his thumb in all the way, fingers cupping Castiel’s balls as he curved his thumb against him inside, dragging a low groan from his lips that he caught with his mouth. “You think I give a damn about Crowley?” he breathed against Castiel’s mouth. He was pumping his thumb in and out, firm and relentless, _just_ missing that place inside on every move, massaging his balls and the base of his prick at the same time. “I don’t want to hurt you, physically, mentally,” he said, with a voice that oozed sexuality in spite of the tenderness in it.

 

 “You couldn’t, you won’t,” Castiel replied impatiently, rolling his hips back into the thumb, arching just right so the next inward stroke grazed him so perfectly. He cried out, turning his head against the bed and just letting the electric sensations rush through him. That was the difference here, this was Dean and he could relish in everything instead of dread it, fight it. “Like I said…been waiting,” he grunted. “No more.”

 

 Dean seemed to realise what the change in angle meant, he was pushing his thumb in faster now, jerking against that tender nub inside, playing it, thrumming it until Castiel’s body sang with shuddering little jerks. “Doesn’t have to be now or never, you know?” Dean murmured but his voice was light and hoarse, lilting in a way that betrayed the sexual teasing in his words. He was dragging it out, relishing in the feel of Castiel coming apart completely under him for the sake of it as well as evidence that he wanted him in spite of everything that had happened.

 

 Crowley couldn’t come between them. They had both decided that in that moment.

 

 “I want it to be now.”

 

 Dean’s lips quirked in one corner. “Greedy, huh?” He dragged his thumb out, reaching for the first aid box and impatiently rooting through it without taking his eyes off Castiel. When Castiel glanced over, he saw three fingers dipping into a large jar of Vaseline. An essential of any BDSM bar’s first aid kit, apparently? He wasn’t complaining, he wasn’t thinking much of anything as those fingers slid over his opening, circling the tender rim before two of them slid straight in, right up to the knuckle. He arched his throat, pushing his head back hard into the bed as Dean reached into him, slicking his taut, sensitive insides as if he were learning every inch.

 

 “You honestly don’t care?” Castiel forced himself to say, because he needed to know before the last frantic grasp on control slipped.

 

 Dean cocked his head slightly, meeting his eyes before focussing again on the place between his legs, watching as he drew two fingers out, then slid in again. “That he had you? I’m not exactly a virgin myself, Cas,” he said and it sounded as if he were distracted, as if every coherent word were effort. “Look at you.” He was almost purring now, drawling sexily as he dragged two fingers out a final time, this time sliding three in as easy as sinking into butter. “All that bastard did was get you ready for me. He can’t touch you, he can’t change anything. You’re mine, you got that?” His fingers were moving fast again, pounding into Castiel, just to make him feel it, just to make him convulse and his cock drool against his stomach.

 

 Castiel didn’t speak. He reached down and stroked his cock fast, needing to get to the edge faster, to free-fall from the same peak he’d reached earlier but with Dean now, the way it was meant to be. He wanted the hazy careless bliss of that place of wanton abandon and he wanted Dean rougher, harder until every inch of him bruised so neither of them, no one could ever forget who he belonged to.

 

 “Do it!” he practically growled, fucking himself back onto those unyielding fingers as much as the hard grip at the back of his knee permitted.

 

 At that moment Dean drew back and the forth finger slid in alongside the others, spreading him open, dragging a sharp cry from his throat as he felt them sink into him to the knuckle. Dean’s gaze was dark with lust-filled appreciation, fingers opening him wetly so a rush of aroused vulnerability and a prickle of mortification pulsed through him. “So good,” he ground out through clenched teeth. Dean seemed torn between watching his face, his heaving torso and his clenching hole. Castiel had never felt so powerful or so helpless all at once.

 

 “You feel so good,” Dean answered, voice low and let go of Castiel’s other knee to reach down and stroke his own cock. Castiel watched his fingers stroke then squeeze at the base, as if to take away the edge. Those green eyes shuttered closed. They’d been so focussed on him up until then that he felt the loss as if it were a suffocating blow. He dropped his legs and reached up for Dean, but then those eyes were open again, freezing him in place. The fingers inside jerked roughly, plunging loud and wet and messy in and out so he squirmed on the sheets again, a fine layer of sweat beading across every taut muscle.

 

 Dean must’ve released his cock because his palm was splayed over his stomach, feeling the lean muscle there and up to his chest, ghosting over nipples that were still torturously sensitive from their earlier treatment, pink and hard in the soft light.

 

 “Did I tell you that you could put your legs down?” Dean murmured, the tone reaching right down into Castiel’s core and tugging hard. He groaned softly, trying to lift his strained limbs back in position. When he didn’t comply as easily as Dean obviously wanted, those fingers were tugged out of him and both hands were back, pinning knees to his shoulders, leaving his hole open and leaking wetness, clenching around nothing under Dean’s gaze.

 

 With a low, rough sound, Dean shifted closer, moving his hips so he could fuck his cock along the oozing valley between his cheeks, slow and clumsy and so not enough for either of them. Still, it had them both transfixed, both of them watching as each glancing blow kissed Castiel’s empty opening.

 

 “This is what you need, huh?” Dean all-but growled, putting a little more pressure on Castiel’s knees, shoulders, meaning the power he was exerting over him.

 

 Castiel nodded urgently, words failing him, rolling his hips as much as his position allowed to try and show his eagerness, his arousal, his need. His own cock was dripping against his chest from this position, the soft fair hair on his own thighs dragging against his tortured nipples, pressure trapping his lungs. His fingers scrabbled at Dean’s thighs, all he could reach of him.

 

 “Me too,” Dean admitted, an almost sheepish look briefly shining through the veil of dark lust, showing an edge of vulnerability there before it was swallowed back up. Dean released one knee just briefly enough to smear a thick handful of Vaseline over his cock and push the tip against the gaping opening. He panted, easing the swollen tip inside and hurriedly grasping Castiel’s leg again, pushing in just enough that the tight, eager clench of Castiel’s slick hole gripped at the underside of the head.

 

 “God, Cas,” he breathed with reverence, tilting hips, sliding in and drawing back, shuddering at the feel of the hot muscles clenching greedily around the sensitive tip.

 

 Vaguely, somewhere in the recesses of his subdued rational mind, Castiel wondered who had wanted this more and never dared to think of taking it, him for these free-falling, blissful release of control and Dean the need to take it back in some way or another. He didn’t care as long as they found it together, over and over for the rest of his days. He allowed his eyes to fall shut then, sliding a hand up to cover Dean’s at the back of one of his knees and releasing a soundless gasp that parted his kiss-bruised lips as Dean sank in deeper.

 

 Pliant, wet softness sucked him in greedily, swallowed him up with twitching, grasping muscles and Dean groaned loudly, bending close over his folded body until he was buried deep inside. He felt huge, pulsing and claiming inside him. Castiel arched up to show his appreciation, clenching tight and smiling hazily when Dean swore softly at the sensations it sent rushing through him. The hand under his escaped, leaving him to hold up his pinned leg so those fingers could smooth over his damp, messy hair. “Dean,” he said in a low, gratified moan.

 

 “Yeah,” Dean answered, slightly ragged as he circled his hips, thoroughly claiming him. “Me, Cas. Just me.” The unspoken ‘always me, from now on’ was thick in the possessive longing in his voice, the last barrier falling between them.

 

 “Move,” Castiel whispered urgently, trying to jerk his hips up and finding himself pinned, almost immobile under Dean’s lean muscle. That loss of control under the strength of the one he wanted most nearly undid him. His cock spat a thick burst of pre-emission against his chest. He turned his head to the side, marked side of his throat exposed as he pushed hard back into the bed, needing to release his thrill somehow, pushing back and up into the hand that now grasped the hair at the top of his head, only further trapping him in place.

 

 Dean’s hips drew back in a slow, almost torturous drag, _just_ grazing his prostate on the way out enough to make him shiver. He felt Dean’s body drink in every tremor, caught a glimpse of intense eyes and overwhelming need that mirrored his own, need for _this_. Dean tugged his had back so that when he leaned over him the rest of the way, he could pin his forehead with his own, watch him with invasive closeness as he twitched his hips. He sank back in, the Vaseline making delicious degrading noises where their bodies met.

 

 “One day I’m going to have you nice and slow and gentle,” Dean whispered, breath dusting Castiel’s parted, moist lips as he sank so deep Castiel thought he felt it in his chest. “So gentle you’ll go crazy,” Dean added, kissing him hard and slow, massaging Castiel’s lips with his own and flicking in almost teasing reprimand at his tongue.

 

 When Castiel’s moved to answer, Dean’s mouth forced his wider, then closed, sucking the tip of his tongue between firm, soft, lips. Castiel groaned in surprised pleasure, but the sound morphed into a sharp gasp as Dean slammed into him, making his insides throb and clench and his fingers spasm on the sheets where they were trapped at an awkward angle because of the position of his body.

 

 “Not today though,” Dean warned, threatened, _promised_ , hips hammering hard now, from zero to sixty in one breath and pounding him with bruising force. “Today you want this. Need this. Gonna give it to you…”

 

 Castiel’s body twisted at the shock of pleasure, the fast, brutal lurches into his body sweeping over that little, swollen gland until he physically couldn’t stay still. He cried out, rough and careless as to their neighbours, _wanting_ them to hear. The mortification of it, of the last semblance of control being taken away with such precise sweetness had him writhing until it felt more like they were fighting instead of fucking.

 

 Dean gave a grunt of pleased impatience, slamming both hands under Castiel’s thighs to pin him tight, dragging his ass higher off the bed and pushing him up into Dean’s thrusts. Castiel managed to get his hands free, but as he scrambled to reach up, Dean caught one, pinning it to the bed and then shoving the other roughly under it so he could pin both with one hand, leaving his other free to keep a hold of one of Castiel’s knees. His fingers slipped on the sweat and bath water and gripped harder, pulling up when Castiel squirmed onto his side, turning his face into the sheets and groaning out his relief of finally being completely taken over by this man.

 

 “Fuck me!” he growled out, eyes squeezed shut against the warm ambience of the room, unable to stand the sight of Dean over him without spilling himself right there. He wanted to hang on, wanted it to last. The fingers at the back of his knee squeezed painfully tight, the weight on his wrists throbbing and he squeezed in ravenous gratitude around the slick, thick girth spearing him over and over again, wet and relentless and so hot it was like being cored open with a branding iron. Dean was panting above him, throaty groans of lust and Castiel writhed again, squeezing, jerking, leaking over himself. “Fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_!”

 

 Dean dove into him a final time, the brutal shove driving the breath from his lungs, leaving him shuddering, gasping soundlessly. “Ssh,” Dean whispered raggedly, dragging his uncooperative limbs up until he was kneeling. Dean’s hands guided Castiel’s to grip the headboard, one over the other and then covered them, trapped them as Dean leant over him, against him again, kneeing his own legs apart so he could kneel between them.

 

 Castiel canted his hips a little, chest heaving, fingers tensing under Dean’s firm hand as the other reached back to spread him open. He felt a thick globule of warm Vaseline ooze there, felt Dean push it back in, teasing the twitching, pink ring of muscle. The breath behind him was rough and uncontrolled. He clenched purposefully around the fingertip, it wasn’t enough but the sight and the heat of it dragged a groan from Dean’s lips.

 

 “Look at that sloppy hole. You waiting for me, Cas?”

 

 “ _Yes_.” It was almost physically painful, this slowness, this lack of touch, the minute distance between their bodies. Dean’s voice was rich and rough and powerful in spite of everything. Crowley knew a lot of things about demons and even men, but he’d been so _so_ wrong about this. “He said you couldn’t give me what I needed,” he murmured without really meaning to speak aloud. The fingers pinning his hands squeezed briefly, reassuringly, possessively.

 

 “I can give you everything,” Dean promised. How many girls had he offered that to? How many bodies had he perfected this seduction with before it came to him? He’d had Dean on that pedestal of purity so long that he’d forgotten the facts. Dean was just as depraved as he was, just as flawed and Castiel wanted to lose himself in him.

 

 “But not all tonight,” Dean continued, leaning against his back, guiding the weeping tip of his prick to Castiel’s hole. When he pushed it, it was long and hard, sinking right into his clenching, wet depths. He held there so he could breathe hotly against Castiel’s ear, feel him squirm against his body, lean muscle against lean muscle.

 

 “Got to give me a reason to come back for more,” Castiel managed breathlessly, only partly teasing, feeling out the ground. Vaseline slicked fingers slid up his chest to graze across a tortured, pink bud, skirting across the tip then round and round and round. Castiel gasped through parted lips, unable, unwilling to keep silent. “I’m in need of a lot of things. It could demand a lot of your time…” His words jerked off at the end as Dean squeezed the tingling bud, so sensitive after everything it’d endured that it sent a line of fire straight down to his cock.

 

 “Good,” was all Dean offered against his ear, pushing almost painfully against Castiel’s wrists as he pushed up deep against him as far as he could go. Castiel pushed back into him, taking it, all of it. He was sure his body would never go back to normal after this, morbidly hoped it didn’t.

 

 “You like this,” Dean murmured, grinding into him without withdrawing an inch, just rocking their hips so they could both feel the minute drag of slick tissue and throbbing hardness. “Want to be in deeper,” he mumbled nonsensically, the tide of passion sweeping every coherent thought out of the way. Dean sounded so good, husky and breathless in his ear with nonsense filth. Castiel pulled urgently against the hand trapping his, needing to touch his cock. It felt as if it were melting away with needy heat.

 

 Dean pressed hard. “I used to think you were this…divine being, but you’re so…so goddamn…” He reached for Castiel’s cock at last, stroking him with lazy strokes, tugging foreskin back to drag his thumb against the line of flesh beneath the head, make Castiel fuck his hand as much as he could with Dean’s hips pinned against his ass. The movement dragged little bolts of electric fire along that place inside, in Castiel’s body where they were joined. So close. So hard.

 

 Dean was drawing out a little now, the thrusts longer yet faster somehow. “…Mine,” Dean grunted, “Just as fucked up as I am. Just…just _human_ and…mine.” He fisted Castiel’s cock faster now, urging hips back with his grip there so they were undulating together, wet and sticky and obscene, falling faster and harder away from the rest of the world.

 

 “Come on,” Castiel groaned, bowing his head, feeling Dean’s mouth against his nape and just arching his body back to take everything he could get. “Yes. Come on.” It was so close, right there, the rush of orgasm tantalisingly close with the cooling darkness close behind it. This time, he couldn’t wait to tumble into it.

 

 The fingers Dean had clasped over his on the headboard and grasped him white-knuckled, to the point of numbness. It was the only warning before Dean shifted his hips, jerking at just the right angle now, hard and immoveable, trapping him beautifully as white-hot fire spiralled out of Castiel’s control. He groaned huskily, "there, right there, there." His throat ached with the last, desperate urging. Dean drove right into that tender gland, making his ass clench impossibly tight around every wet thrust. Then he shuddered and his own cock pulsed, bursting fluid pleasure into Dean's hand, which just kept stroking him.

 

 "So good, cream yourself for me," Dean breathed roughly in his ear. Those strong fingers stroked slower but didn't stop. His increasingly erratic thrusts and hand both milked him dry until Castiel gave a shattered, sated groan of sheer surrender and just sank down. He was too sensitive, skin still burning all over inside and out but he'd never felt closer to someone in his life.

 

 Dean's body followed his when it hung limply from the grip on the headboard, pressed against his sweaty back. At last Dean’s hand released his cock, sticky fingers holding his hips up as he slid in again. The thrusts were shallow and rapid now, just like both of their breathing. Dean was fucking the spasms of his tender entrance with just the tip of his prick, the soft, wet muscles gripping him just right probably, just under the tender head where Castiel liked it best too.

 

 The image of what it must look like made his shuddering insides tense and he squeezed Dean greedily, needing to feel his orgasm with more intensity than he'd ever needed his own. It worked. Dean gasped a choked, shocked and orgasmic sound, gripping Castiel's hip tight as he spilled himself against his opening, nowhere near deep enough to keep it from leaking down Castiel's perineum, his soft balls, down between his thighs onto the mattress below.

 

 "Mmm," Dean murmured dazedly, easing out and gasping, probably at the sight Castiel must have made back there. "Damn, Cas, you look like such a slut back here," he murmured with a warm tone that far from offending, made the warm dark place Castiel had fallen into more welcoming than ever. He relished in the touch of slightly calloused fingers on his sore entrance, smearing semen across his skin and closed his eyes, relieved when Dean leaned into him for a moment, just pressing against him as if needing the contact as readily as he did. Perfect.

 

 "One sec," Dean's sex-roughened voice murmured against the back of his neck, before the bed moved with Dean's retreat. He returned before Castiel could even begin to reconsider the blissful oblivion he was lounging in and dragged the cheap, damp wash cloth over both of them. "Err. Sorry," Dean apologised when he was a bit too thorough, hands still shaky and clumsy as they swept between Castiel's cheeks.

 

 "It's fine," Castiel said. "It's...what I want." He felt Dean hesitate briefly before setting the wash cloth aside. He slid into his side next to him and when Castiel finally opened his eyes, Dean was watching him from the edge of the pillow his own head was resting on.

 

 “It’s what I want,” Dean confirmed, studying Castiel’s face carefully for a long time. The glow from the television was gone now; the only light coming from the dull lamp but it was enough to illuminate those eyes and cheekbones, the slow, thoughtful curve of those lips. There was a brief pulse of awkwardness as fleeting as a heartbeat and then Dean’s fingers were sliding up over his side, up against his ribs, shoulder and sliding over until it rested just on his collar bone. There was a dark, throbbing bruise on his neck where Dean’s lips had sucked at his flesh ravenously before and Castiel watched Dean focus on it as their vitals slowly floated back down to normal.

 

 Suddenly, Dean was moving, swinging a leg over his thighs so he was straddling him, just under his tender ass. Castiel groaned but didn’t move, didn’t protest. He was sore all over and swimming in blissful oblivion but he’d take more, he’d take whatever Dean gave. Those strong fingers gripped his shoulders firmly, pushed down and he tried to shift his legs apart but Dean’s thighs gripped his, keeping him in place. His exhausted, sated body shifted urgently and then Dean’s hands squeezed, rubbing deep at muscles he hadn’t realised had tensed with the hard fucking he’d relished in before.

 

 Oh. They were just…

 

 “Don’t move,” Dean said, voice husky still and low in the warm darkness, kneading the muscles in his shoulders with firm, dragging motions, until Castiel groaned softly into the pillow for a completely different reason. He thought he heard Dean smile. Dean’s fingers rolled into the knots of muscle down between his shoulder blades, silently smoothing out every cramped crevice all the way down his back before coming back up to massage his shoulders and neck again. He felt utterly boneless.

 

 “Your experience with this wasn’t limited only to hell,” Castiel murmured after a long while, his voice easy and untroubled, drifting like dust in the poorly lit motel room. Dean squeezed his shoulders a final time before sliding off him to lay on his side once more, facing him.

 

 “I’ve tried a few things out with girls,” Dean said easily, apparently the experience had much the same effect on him. Castiel didn’t think he’d ever seen him so relaxed in all the time he’d known him. “More than one of them told me I had big brother issues, you know, wanting to look after them. Guess there’s some things you can’t leave outside the bedroom.” He was trying for jovial but his throat still sounded rough with orgasm and so warm Castiel’s muscles remained as a puddle on the sheets.

 

 “And these desires inside the bedroom, when did they translate to me?” Why did his own way of saying things, his own voice sound so funny after he’d just been screaming obscenities like _‘fuck me’_ into the mattress? That was the strength of freedom, he supposed.

Dean looked a little embarrassed now, flushed slightly and smoothing his just-fucked hair back. “Guys were just a fleeting interest before. Too complicated.” He closed his eyes briefly as he added, “I don’t count what happened in hell as sexual experimentation.”

 

 Good, they were both agreed there. That was torture, this was not. When Dean’s eyes fluttered open again the brief troubled tightness that’d touched his face was gone. That talk was coming but not yet, not here. Here was just for them.

 

 “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Dean admitted softly. “It wasn’t like a lightning strike. You’ve always been…intense.” He looked a little uncomfortable and rolled onto his back, turning off the dim light and staring up at the ceiling. The light outside the motel room peeped in through the thin curtains and by the meagre light Castiel could just make out Dean’s profile, the flicker of his eyes.

 

 At last, Dean offered to the darkness, “I think I first started to realise when I first saw you…broken. You were vulnerable, you know? All the barriers were down and I saw you. I sort of started to realise then, I suppose.”

 

 Castiel drew in a small breath, pushing slowly up onto one elbow to look down at Dean, eyes straining to see him in the dimness. He could see enough of him to gauge his expression as he slid a hand across his chest. “I’m not broken,” he said levelly, quietly. “I liked relinquishing control to you. But it won’t always be like that. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”

 

 To his surprise, Dean smiled.

 

 “Man, sometimes I’m going to need you to put me back together too. That’s how it works. If Sam has taught me anything over the years it’s that you can’t carry any weight alone.” So sincere, slightly exasperated, so easy, as if he’d been thinking of this for a long time, as if it all made sense to him. Castiel frowned, that wasn’t how it usually worked. Usually Dean was the one who needed him to make sense of everything, to offer guidance and advice and…

 

 He swallowed. Wasn’t that just what Dean had said? That this was how it was supposed to work?

 

 “Yes, that’s exactly it,” he said, with soft, sleepy finality. This wasn’t over. They had plenty more demons to face, the ones waiting outside this room and the ones buried deep within, but it was enough to know this wasn’t the end and that they were in it together. Utterly spent physically, mentally, emotionally, he started to pull back, to sink onto the bed but Dean’s arm looped around his neck and pulled him down.

 

 Beneath his cheek, firm, defined pectorals were smooth and hard, the heartbeat below thudding gently. He felt a hand over his nape, skittering up to drag through his scalp and hair and he sank into the body he was pressed against, lying half on top of.

 

 “I can practically hear how busy it is in there,” Dean mused sleepily against the top of his head.

 

 Castiel smirked. “No. It’s nice and quiet tonight,” he managed, before he drifted.

 

*                            *                            *

 

 The thin curtains at the window did nothing to keep out the early morning light. Castiel squinted. He’d rolled over in his sleep at some point to face the wall and now was blinded by the grey light from outside. Judging by the colour the sun was hidden behind a veil of thick cloud. No telling what time it was, but the weight close behind him on the bed told him Dean was still asleep. Turning over onto his other side, he found himself pressed against Dean’s back. He pushed up on one elbow, wincing at the ache in his limbs, to look down. Soft, deep breathing, eyes closed and unmoving, lashes heavy against cheekbones. Fast asleep.

 

 He’d seen Dean asleep before, knocked unconscious as well and many of those times he’d been vulnerable, had relied on him or even Sam to watch his back, just like he’d said last night. But this was entirely different. They were connected now irrevocably and the odd possessive, protectiveness he felt hummed with warm intimacy. He felt like he had some right, some unspoken blanket permission to reach out and drag his palm flat down from that softly moving collarbone, over his chest and down to rest on his abdomen.

 

 Castiel lay his head down on the pillow Dean occupied, nose _just_ touching the nape of Dean’s neck and just held his hand there on Dean’s belly. He was warm there and the tightness reminded him of those lean muscles pressed into him, pinning him to the bed with all their strength the night before, giving him everything he’d wanted and more. So much more.

 

 “You’re just full of surprises,” he murmured against Dean’s skin, voice thick with sleep as he pressed himself forward until he was spooned against Dean’s body, curving around him as close as he could. They’d rolled apart at some point during the night and that was fine, both of them used to sleeping alone but now they were this close again, skin against skin with no barriers between them, he was struck by the rightness of it. He felt more free than he had in his whole existence and it was with an easy, sleepy bliss that he closed his eyes.

 

 He must have drifted again because he blinked, twitched awake really the way you did when you knew some time had passed but you weren’t sure how long. His cock was hard and pressed against the curve of Dean’s ass, which was rocking back into him with minute, barely there motions. He groaned softly against the back of Dean’s ear and let his hand, still resting on Dean’s stroke up and down against the tight abdomen. Dean’s hand, the one belonging to the arm that rested against the sheets covered his, threading fingers between his as easy as breathing.

 

 Dean’s breathing was thick and heady, the ear and neck by Castiel’s face flushed slightly. “Been awake long?” Castiel managed, his voice still sleep-rough and foggy with arousal. He swore he heard Dean’s smile.

 

 “Not long. Few minutes,” Dean replied in a tone that didn’t sound much more awake than his, but equally hungry. How was it that the haze of sleep made every sensation so much better? Languid like oil gliding across wet skin, like fluid, undulating motions of bodies together that were just moving because it felt good, not awake enough to comprehend anything else.

 

 His fingers curled slightly on Dean’s stomach, scraping gently and he dragged in a low breath as he rocked forward, letting his body follow Dean’s slow, rolling hips, grinding his cock against Dean’s firm, round ass. He groaned again, nuzzling his head tight into the back of Dean’s neck, wanting to hide from the rest of the world there, from everything but what he was feeling right now.

 

 Even when he’d daydreamed that Dean would reciprocate, would return his feelings, he’d never dared to hope for more. This was more. This was lazy morning sex instead of an awkward morning after with the promise of forever, somehow wound between the fingers grasping his.

 

 Dean’s free hand slid up to cup the back his neck, gently encouraging him to burrow into his neck deeper, as if he loved it as much as Castiel did. A thumb scraped his hair up the wrong way and he shuddered appreciatively, rocking a little harder so that this time when Dean shifted, his foreskin caught perfectly against the little dimple just above Dean’s tailbone. The next stroke against that firm ass was slick with his own pre-come.

 

 “Cas,” Dean murmured drowsily, sexily. He turned his head a little, unable to see him from the angle but wanting to increase their connection somehow. Castiel slid his head up so his nose rested just at Dean’s ear. He was listening. Their bodies didn’t stop sliding together. Dean hummed slowly. “Want a turn?”

 

 At first he said nothing in response to the warm promise, the husky question, too stunned and too aroused by the idea and the equality of it to find words. Apparently sensing this, Dean pushed his ass back into his firm prick with no reservations whatsoever. “You know,” he elaborated roughly, “you, on top?”

 

 Castiel flattened his palm more firmly against Dean’s stomach and exhaled roughly in his ear, sliding back and scrambling for the Vaseline that had been abandoned last night. With great reluctance, he eased his hips back enough to slide his now slick fingers down Dean’s cleft, to drag the pad of his finger against the tight, furled entrance hidden between his firm cheeks. He was propped up on his elbow enough to watch Dean’s chest and stomach muscle tighten, watch his cock pulse there brazenly, flushed pink..

 

 Dean’s upper body was still twisted slightly back so he could reach up and drag his fingers against Castiel’s neck and hair, hold their connection and intimacy. Castiel circled his throbbing ring, smearing the Vaseline there and flicking across the blazing centre. Dean turned his head back, pressing his cheekbone against Castiel’s chin and rocking back into him. The tip of Castiel’s finger pressed in. “Done this before?” he asked softly. Dean had pretty much told him last night but he needed to ask for some reason.

 

 “Not from the bottom,” Dean confirmed, so easily but with a prickle of anticipation there as well this time. Castiel slid his finger back out, circling the smear of Vaseline again, the ring of muscles before sliding back in. This time he sank all the way to the knuckle and groaned at the tight grasping heat, drew back to graze at the little gland just inside. When Dean’s hips jerked, he slunk his arm under Dean’s waist again, pinning him tight, using one leg to ensnare one of Dean’s and pry him open, trap him half-turned to him against the sheets.

 

 “Going to give you a taste for it,” Castiel breathed, dragging his finger right there, curling it out to gather more Vaseline and spread it inside with each stroke inside again. “We’re not going to know which way’s better.”

 

 He heard Dean’s smile again.

 

 “Have to go with the flow, man, see where the mood takes us,” he managed, sliding a hand down to give his cock a long stroke as two fingers pried him open, wetly, slowly, inevitably. Castiel relished in the strong heat of him, knowing they could satisfy every desire they had together, whichever way round that landed, it didn’t matter. The connection mattered. He watched Dean’s firm, slow grip on his cock, felt his own throb in answer. He rocked into whatever slice of skin he could reach and savoured the feeling of slick muscles softening, opening to him.

 

 Dean was rocking back into his fingers now impatiently. “C’mon, make me as hot for it as you were last night.”

 

 Castiel groaned, pinning Dean’s leg more tightly with his own and dragging his fingers out, sliding them over firm balls and squeezing the base of his cock as he rolled them in his sticky palm. “Are you saying I was a whore?” he teased roughly, a flush of appreciative arousal burning up his throat.

 

 Dean struggled against the thigh holding his captive and stroked his cock faster. “You were a total slut for me,” he panted, “So fucking hot. Opening up for me and sucking me right in.” It was like the haze of sleep had settled around them, wrapping them up in a wet dream. Dean pushed back into Castiel, no doubt feeling the hot brand of his cock against his ass as he rode the grasp of his own hand and Castiel’s at once.

 

 Reluctantly dragging his hand away from Dean’s cock, Castiel stroked his own, smearing the lingering stickiness over himself before pushing down, sliding the throbbing tip down the sweltering cleft between his cheeks and pressing against his burning core. “Are you going to gobble me up like a good boy?”

 

 “Shit, Cas,” Dean squirmed, cock pulsing when Castiel’s leg and free arm kept him pinned. “Your damn _voice_ …”

 

 Smiling, Castiel sank in, letting out a shuddering gasp as Dean’s heat swallowed him. “Oh, that’s it, just the tip, so good.” Dean was tense but he was still stroking himself, still breathing steady, stretched, wet muscles fluttering around the head of his prick, sucking at him with a greed they were only just adjusting to.

 

 “Keep going,” Dean whispered hoarsely, “Give it to me.” He stroked himself a little faster as Castiel complied, easing deeper. He felt brief resistance in those muscles and slid his hand up and down Dean’s tight abdomen before pushing in more firmly. His slightly rough fingers dragged up over hard, peaked nipples and Dean gasped, clenching around him right at the moment he sank into him to the hilt.

 

 “Geez, you feel huge,” Dean panted. Castiel chuckled warmly against his cheek, letting his nail drag against one of the stiffened buds on his chest before sliding down to cup his balls.

 

 “You’re gripping me so tight,” Castiel murmured, dragging his nose gently against a cheekbone and letting his lips touch the skin just beneath. He shifted his hips back, dragging torturously slow out of Dean’s grasping heat. Dean groaned softly at the motion, body tensing up. Castiel gave a breathy smile against his jaw and slathered more Vaseline over himself before easing back in again.

 

 “S’just ‘cause I like you so much, baby,” Dean mused, voice playful and affectionate but pinched slightly with discomfort. Castiel moaned at the sound of it, of the words, of the tone and the feel of the man he loved around him. He slid all the way in and burrowed his lips against the curve of his neck, grinding into him with slow, rhythmic undulations, his hipbones sliding against the firm curves of Dean’s ass.

 

 “Does it hurt?” he asked hotly against the shell of a flushed ear. Dean shivered, sweeping the pad of his thumb across the slick slit of his cock, smearing the moisture down to his frenulum and tugging a little, turning his head to stretch against the invasive, delicious feeling. Castiel knew exactly what he was feeling and it made him hot all over, like a thousand tiny white-hot pin-pricks over his skin.

 

 “Yeah,” Dean replied, dragging foreskin back with the little teasing tugs at the tip of his own prick. “Don’t stop.” He sounded like they both felt, feverish with need, unable to keep still, stretching and squirming on the sheets that smelled already of sex. Castiel could still feel the tension in him, the instinctive resistance built into his body quivered around him but it didn’t stop the inevitable pull of their rapidly heating bodies together. It was as unavoidable as drawing their next breath, something they could stop no more easily than they could stop the sun from rising.

 

 Dean was moving back into him with tentative but stubborn rocks of his hips now, his hand stalled on his swollen cock, just gripping, not stroking any longer, as if the friction inside was a distraction he couldn’t pull back from. His fingers curled at Castiel’s nape, digging in slightly and Dean pushed his face fully into the pillow. “Come on. _Do_ it. I’m no pussy. _Give it to me_.” The last words were almost a growl and the hoarse sound dragged an answering snarl of lust.

 

 Sinking into Dean hard, he slid over him, angling the leg he’d previously trapped until he was hovering over him, still buried inside. Dean winced but arched up against him in spite of it, hands flying up to dig into Castiel’s hips, urge him forward. Castiel gave a grunt, dragging out and slamming back in again, snagging hold of Dean’s wrists and pushing them hard above his head as he leaned deeper into him. Their mouths were nearly touching, Dean’s parted slightly with ragged breath.

 

 Castiel could feel his dick between their stomachs, a hot shaft of steel and rocked into him, letting his abdomen press hard, squeeze it between them at the same time as the tighter angle let him thrust shallowly into the little swollen, neglected gland. Dean swore softly, arms tensing under Castiel’s grip.

 

 “You’ve got a dirty mouth, Dean Winchester,” Castiel murmured, dragging his lips over his jaw as he rocked in again, feeling the slick entrance strain to take him and yet defiantly squeeze, flutter, struggle to do so if only to feel the next pulse of electric fire just there inside. “You like that, right there, right?”

 

 “Jesus Christ,” Dean cursed hoarsely, tentatively rolling his hips up into him, mostly to push his cock up into the hardness of Castiel’s torso. His lashes fluttered as he drew a shaky, overwhelmed breath and he looked up at Castiel from beneath them. The weird stretching, the pain was still there, it was obvious, but the bloom of pleasure had blossomed out over both, incorporating it all into one overwhelming tide, flowing up and down the body beneath him almost visibly until Dean was flushed with it all over.

 

 Castiel awkwardly pressed against the captive wrists with one hand, using the other to slide down to drag against a lightly haired thigh, pull it tighter to his hips, knot them together tighter. Dean’s lips parted just beneath his with a near soundless grunt at the deeper invasion and Castiel let them feel his smile. “You feel amazing. Want you…”

 

 “You got me,” Dean answered easily, tilting his head to catch Castiel’s mouth with his. His tongue flicked against his, just the tip, almost tickling with softness before curling against it and sweeping into his mouth more fully. His groan of strained approval at Castiel’s hips grinding in more firmly vibrated sinfully, making Castiel’s head spin. He felt the hands trapped under one of his struggle free, come down to squeeze between their chests and scrape hungrily at his skin, his nipples, his pectorals.

 

 “You want to be mine?” Castiel panted, stealing rough kisses that duelled with Dean’s entire mouth between gasps for breath.

 

 “Fuck, yes.” Dean’s hands were moving again, as if they couldn’t stay still, had to touch every inch of him, claim it, express his need somehow with the rest of him pinned firmly in place by Castiel’s body. Fingers dug into Castiel’s shoulders, sliding down his back like they were relishing in the feel of slender muscles pulling tight there with every thrust. Sweat beaded their flesh. Castiel kicked the tangled, dampened sheets away impatiently sealing their lips again with savagery, bruising lips and clashing teeth. This time when he punched his hips forward, Dean gave a guttural groan and his fingers bit into Castiel’s back.

 

 “That’s it, baby, harder.” He was moving almost more than Castiel was, grinding hard up into him, dragging against his neglected prick and driving the pulsing heat of the gland inside him into Castiel’s thrusting hardness. “Pound that tight, greedy cunt. Take it.”

 

 Castiel gave a snarl of heated pleasure that utterly consumed him, sliding roughly grasping fingers under Dean’s shoulders, curling them round and dragging him tight against his body as he rolled sideaways. Dean’s hips ground into his as they settled clumsily. Dean astride him, bent double over Castiel with forearms braced against the pillows he’d been shoved into before now. Castiel’s eyes glistened as they stared up at him, hair dishevelled, features sex-flushed, lips parted with rapid breath.

 

 Sliding a hand between them, Castiel stroked Dean’s prick with languid caresses that were nowhere near enough, tearing his gaze from those eyes so close to his to peer down at the thick, flushed flesh squeezed perfectly in his fist until he’d milked a steady dribble of pre-emission from the tip. He smoothed his finger across the clear fluid, making Dean shudder above him, around him. He could almost feel that heart pounding so close to his own.

 

 “Don’t stop,” Castiel urged roughly, brushing his lips against Dean’s briefly with his words, so Dean could feel them as well as hear them. He rolled his hips up into Dean’s, the angle different and tighter somehow. Dean groaned heavily, moving with his swelling movements as if inevitably drawn to follow, to answer every rocking thrust. He grasped Castiel’s hair, holding him still so he could cry out into his mouth with fierce, open-mouthed kisses.

 

 “Going to work you over so good,” Dean ground out nonsensically, taking everything he wanted, gripping Castiel tighter with a painful grip that only chased the pleasure higher. “Fucking take you so deep…”

 

 “Keep doing that,” Castiel murmured urgently, his own fingers clawing their way across Dean’s chest round to his back in perfect symmetry to how Dean’s had earlier. The skin on his own back still tingled in the echoes of that rough passion, Dean’s touch permanently engrained into his flesh the way he wanted it.

 

 “What?” The vibration was so sweet and wet with spittle against his tongue. Castiel bit gently and smiled against Dean’s mouth when he fucked himself harder in reaction.

 

 “That mouth,” Castiel said, dragging a thumb against the swollen corner of Dean’s lips in answer. “Filthy. More.” He felt the smile, wicked and hungry and then his arms were the ones pinned either side of him, bearing the brunt of Dean’s weight as he ground onto him, fucking him, taking everything his body had to offer with bunched, tight muscles shiny with perspiration.

 

 He was perfectly happy to be there, to take whatever Dean wanted but a flicker of challenge in those eyes urged him to push back, to break his hands free and grip Dean’s hips hard, urging him faster, more roughly onto him, pushing him back with a particular movement so he was riding his hips upright, all of him on full glorious display including his cock that stood rigid and swollen against a taut stomach.

 

 “Look at you,” Castiel breathed, bending his legs behind Dean’s round ass, planting his feet on the sheets for more leverage. His muscles strained and screamed as he punched his hips upwards, watching the way his passion made the body he loved move and contort and sing with heat. “Talk to me.”

 

 One of Dean’s hands splayed over his stomach, steadying his own body against the maddening movements of their bodies and grounding them both with the intimate connection. His other grasped his cock, jerking roughly, urgently towards the precipice. “You don’t need my voice to get you off, baby,” he murmured, cocky and eyes bright with fervour.

 

 “Give it to me, all of you. Let it all go,” Castiel urged, hearing his own voice and words fall prey to incoherency as he chased his own pleasure with every jerking thrust up into noisily wet heat. “Can hear you. Sloppy, dirty, _tight_ …”

 

 “Oh, Fuck,” Dean cried and the sound was as pinched and tight now as it was rough. “That’s it. Pound me. Right there. Fuck it out of me. Everything. Everything but you, I–” His words cut off sharply with a sound of distress as Castiel swatted his hand away from his cock, only to morph into one of relieved urgency as Castiel’s fingers gripped him, stroking fast and just right and squeezing him in between rapid thrusts. Castiel could feel the impossible hardness swollen and _pulsing_ right there in his hand.

 

 “Milk me fucking dry,” Dean cursed roughly, grinding into him, gyrating hips with opening, intoxicating greed. So close, so open, more than he’d ever been for anyone else. It was enough to make heat flood Castiel’s veins until he swore he was burning alive.

 

 “Perfect,” Castiel managed. Dean was purely him, rough and exposed and filthy-mouthed and just his. Those hands were on his chest, as if trying to grasp his heart through his heaving chest and hold onto it. Castiel let him, drove up into wet, blinding heat and grasping muscles that trembled as they sucked him deeper, tightening with spasms.

 

 “Come in me,” Dean urged, panting and desperate now, so close, cock almost purple at the point of explosion in Castiel’s grasp that never slowed, even as his wrist cramped. “Make me feel it. Make it leak out of me ‘round you. Close…so…”

 

 One hand covered Castiel’s whether to urge him faster or stall him because the sensation was too much, because he too was burning up with it, it was unclear. Castiel felt fingers dig in just above his heart and his own clasped Dean’s back with panicked need to sink into his skin so they could never be parted. His orgasm rocketed through him and carried scalding, unstoppable pleasure right out of his pulsing shaft and into Dean’s body.

 

 He tried to keep his hand moving over Dean as fast, as hard as before through the overwhelming rush of his orgasm, the sharp, pulling bursts spilling inside his Dean’s body. But he knew he was losing the battle at the desperate, ragged sound of Dean’s voice and shoved him with clumsy, post-orgasmic desperation until Dean was astride his chest. Eyes closed, still deliciously reeling in the aftermath, he sucked Dean into his mouth, swallowing greedily at his cock even as his own burned with pleasant, tingling oversensitivity, cold now with Dean up on his chest.

 

 Dean braced himself on the headboard and cried out, long and deep, rocking into Castiel’s mouth with shallow, barely restrained jerks, sinking in just enough to touch the back of Castiel’s eager, if inexpert tongue the rest of him being stroked in Castiel’s fist.

 

 Castiel did open his eyes then to see Dean utterly spent, almost weak with the need to come and yet muscles standing tight and tense in display of his strength. Castiel watched his flushed face, his parted, swollen mouth as he sank his fingers up into the slick heat, pushing his own come back into that puckered, stretched ring.

 

 Dean jerked, thighs gripping Castiel’s shoulders, hips stuttering forward. Castiel sucked harder, plunging four fingers up into his fucked out, messy ass with wet, debauched sounds and chasing more of them. The feel of Dean coming apart around and above him was intoxicating, more important than the need to breath when Dean started sinking into him deeper, _just_ touching his throat, threatening his gag reflex and asphyxiation but with one hard carding lovingly through his hair all at once, as if he wanted to sink into Castiel as much as Castiel wanted the same.

 

 “Cas,” Dean panted, that pinched, besieged pressure in his voice again. Castiel saw those eyes almost black with need focus on him, curled his fingers up against Dean’s come-slippery prostate with every rough, urgent jerk of his cramping wrist. He felt his own come there, knew it was oozing wetly down Dean’s thighs against his compressed chest and it only made perfect sense. Both of them as dirty and depraved and in love as only freedom and devotion could make them.

 

 It was too much then, Dean fucking his mouth and his hand and those eyes squeezed shut. “Cas,” Dean managed again, his fingers curling against sweat-dampened hair in perfect gentle awe and affection, contrast to his shuddering, jerking body as orgasm took him. It was like being tied to someone struck by lightning. Spasms and heat and pained noises and desperation rode him hard. Dean arched into his mouth, his climax spurting across Castiel’s tongue. Rather than choke, Castiel swallowed, drawing in breath through his nose when Dean rocked back just enough to press his swollen prostate against Castiel’s stroking fingers. He rode the raw pleasure of it, the pressure of Castiel’s mouth in stuttered, slow rolling motions of his hips.

 

 Those eyes fluttered open only when he started to soften and Castiel eased his fingers out with a slow circle of the abused hole. Dean gasped but smiled too and tentatively eased off of Castiel’s chest. He made a face of discomfort, one of muscles cramped but also touched by orgasmic relief. He knelt at Castiel’s side for a moment, apparently contemplating before grasping Castiel’s wrist and pulling him slowly, wordlessly to his feet. Dean didn’t seem to care that his fingers slid on Castiel’s skin with the come clinging there, or that they were both unsteady and clumsy on their feet as he backed toward the bathroom, pulling Castiel with him.

 

 When he paused inside to turn on the shower, he pulled Castiel to him, melding their lips together in slow, sensuous caresses. It was soft now, their urgency and insecurity spent and resolved in mutual orgasm more than once. Intimacy. Castiel could still feel it buzzing gently through his skin and a sound that was almost pained with relief welled up in his throat as he curled unsoiled fingers against the nape of Dean’s neck, deepening their kiss.

 

 Steam furled around them from the open shower as their tongues slid gently together, loving now for the sake of it, for the sake of each other rather than a prelude to sex. It filled the room with warm closeness, gave even the cheap room a hazy, pleasant glow and when they had to draw apart for Dean to step back into the shower, Castiel hesitated on the threshold to watch him, framed in the steam, water splashing across his sweaty skin.

 

 “You coming in?” Dean challenged with that roguish grin.

 

 Castiel felt his breath catch because he wanted to, so badly, felt it in his chest like an aching longing for breath of a drowning man. Except he wasn’t drowning, wasn’t alone there in the dark, not anymore. There was no doubt more would come but it wouldn’t be one of solitude, whatever happened. “When we step out of this room, will you still be mine?” He watched those eyes dance with such affection his oversensitive skin almost quivered.

 

 “Definitely,” Dean said, as if it was a given and grasped his sticky, come-covered wrist and pulled him into the shower. Their lips met at the same time as their bodies did, both pressing easily together as much of a kiss of their mouths as of their connecting skin everywhere else. Castiel’s hands chased droplets of blissfully hot water across Dean’s skin and Dean’s reciprocated. Dean gave him one of those dazzling, breath-stealing grins, slightly hazy with love and spent pleasure as he turned face first into the flow of water, relaxing back into Castiel’s body when he stepped up to spoon against him under the spray.

 

 “I’d…” Castiel began, his voice husky as he brushed his jaw against Dean’s shoulder, feeling the rasp of his morning stubble against the skin. Dean turned his head enough so that his nose brushed Castiel’s cheek, as if urging him to finish. “I’d better help you get clean,” Castiel managed eventually, fingers caressing Dean’s soft cock and further down, massaging cascading water in his cupped hand against the leaking, soft tissue of his puckered entrance.

 

 Dean shuddered but didn’t move away. Castiel swore he heard a smile in Dean’s voice when he answered through the soothing rush of water.

 

 “Better be thorough, sexy as it feels I’m gonna be pissed if you make me leak over Baby’s seats.”

 

 For some reason, that playful and only partially joking statement sealed Castiel’s lingering insecurity away. Things had changed, yes but only in the ways that mattered. This was his Dean but the same Dean he’d always known as well. He smiled and bore Dean against the tiles, dragging his fingers along the water that rushed down the hard muscle of his back and firm ass and massaging away the evidence of sex without hesitation. It wasn’t an end, only a beginning.

 

 “Hey, gentle, man,” Dean breathed as Castiel’s fingers smoothed over his tender entrance, there was amusement in his voice though.

 

 “Now you want gentle,” Castiel offered, complying nonetheless, washing his less sensitive parts with the soap and using his hands to help rinse before letting Dean turn to him.

 

 “We can do gentle next time,” Dean replied with a grin, “I can do gentle.” He watched Castiel’s hands as they washed his body with almost reverence, then when he was done, took the soap from him and lathered his own hands before smoothing them over Castiel’s skin. “I can also do rougher, if you’re up for it.” It wasn’t even really a question. Castiel kissed him.

 

*                            *                            *

 

 Clean and still buzzing, pleasantly aching and blissfully sore in the afterglow, they made their way back to the Impala. It was a lengthy walk but a good one, their arms lightly brushing against each other as they passed the crowds ambling about their everyday lives. For a while they were there with them, lost in the lingering freedom of normal. It was a well-deserved reprieve. They had no doubt there were demons out on the road ahead but as long as they found this once and a while in between…

 

 Castiel caught Dean glancing at him as he unlocked the car and knew he was thinking the same. As he pulled open his own door though and made to slide into the front, Dean’s voice stilled him.

 

 “Hey,” that deep, softly resonating tone offered, green eyes flicking to him again and shining. “Get in the back.”

 

 A rush of heat prickled low in Castiel’s belly, spreading out through his body as he pulled the seat forward, holding that gaze all the while as he slid fluidly into the back. His heart thudded heavily, breath pitching higher as Dean slid in bedside him, fingers sliding across Castiel’s chest, their warmth mingling through layers of cloth. He took in Castiel’s face and close quarters, their breath mingling not for the first nor last time before he shifted closer, so their bodies were pressed together in the back seat.

 

 “Again?” Castiel mused breathlessly, even as his fingers reciprocated, sliding under Dean’s t-shirt to caress lean muscles he’d committed to memory. “In your car?”

 

 Dean’s smirk against his mouth was the most beautiful feeling in the world. Castiel’s insides twitched at the feeling.

 

 “Sure, just no come stains on Baby,” he said gravely, even as his voice emanated heat. “I just thought…” He broke off, as if the need to kiss him had become too overwhelming and he needed to quench his irresistible thirst before he continued. He slid their lips together, brief but firm, drawing back just enough to continue. “You’ve never done this before, I’m guessing. Wanted to show you…”

 

 _Show you everything,_ was the unspoken end to that sentence, evident in the tenderness of that voice.

 

 Castiel’s fingers gripped Dean’s neck, pulling him in, taking the kiss that was offered and the future that came with it. Accepting everything. They curled slightly against each other, fingers spreading, kneading, caressing through their clothes, lips and tongues melding together with fluid ease, slow and swelling with heated worship. “Love you,” Castiel murmured, husky and breathless against that talented mouth that robbed his mind of coherency. Dean’s fingers tightened on his nape, scraping the hair just above.

 

 “Yeah,” Dean panted, all rough, his tongue lashing Castiel’s, teeth grazing his lower lip ever so gently. “That. You too. Love you. Should’ve said, I just…” He groaned, pressing his forehead against Castiel’s and just…being there, all fingers gripping and eyes close. “Guys don’t say that sort of stuff easily.” That brazen honesty had always been so charming. It still was.

 

 Castiel offered an answering smirk, hands settling across Dean’s back. “You’re aware that I’m male also. In this form at least.”

 

 “You’re an angel,” Dean corrected, still husky and yet so different to the way Crowley had whispered it what seemed like a lifetime ago. He could only smile and lean in for another kiss.

 

 At that moment the driver’s side door jerked open and they both jumped, whirling, hearts pounding to see Sam leaning in the door, eyes wide. They studied them both for a beat, then Sam whipped back out of the car, leaning back against the open door with a low, desperate sound. “Not going to lie, guys, _so_ not what I expected to see,” he offered up to the quiet street. He remained there for a while, during which Castiel and Dean carefully extricated themselves into more respectful (separate) seated positions.

 

 Eventually, Sam climbed into the front seat and swivelled around to meet them with a resigned look. “Neither of you are possessed or…otherwise enchanted or anything?” he asked, as if part of him would find it simpler if they were.

 

 Castiel remained quiet, watching the brothers’ silent exchange until Dean leant forward, clapping Sam on the shoulder around the seat of the car. “No demons here, Sammy,” he said brightly, only a flicker of anxiety in his resolved voice.

 

 Sam’s lips twisted. “Yeah, I figured as much,” he said, finally meeting Castiel’s eyes too. “Right. Okay. Good.” He turned back to face the front, took a breath and then said easily, “let’s get breakfast. I saw a deli on my way here.” Just like that, not easy but acceptance nonetheless. Dean gave a bark of laughter but also a nod of agreement.

 

 “Sex and food, it’s my kind of morning,” Dean said with a full-beam smile.

 

 “Oh my God!” Sam cried in dismay, climbing quickly out of the car, leaving Dean to push the seat forward and follow. Castiel shook his head and listened to the easy banter for a glorious moment, before clambering out after them. It wouldn’t always be like this, but some of it would be, warm and light and easy as falling. He stepped out onto the concrete and saw Dean turn, saw that smile still there, for him and felt a smaller, reciprocating expression tug at his own lips.

 

 

The End.

 


End file.
